., 

'*. 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 

J.  Lorenz  Sparer 


< 


THE   DWELLER   ON  THE 
THRESHOLD 


BY 

ROBERT   HICHENS 

Author  of  "The  Garden  of  Allah,"  "Bella  Donna,"  "Egypt  and  its 
Monuments,"  "  The  Holy  Land,"  etc. 


NEW  YORK 

THE  CENTURY  CO. 

191 1 


THE    DWELLER    ON    THE 
THRESHOLD 

I 

WHEN  Evelyn  Mailing,  notorious  because 
of  his  sustained  interest  in  Psychical  Re- 
search and  his  work  for  Professor  Stepton,  first 
met  the  Rev.  Marcus  Harding,  that  well-known 
clergyman  was  still  in  the  full  flow  of  his  many 
activities.  He  had  been  translated  from  his 
labors  in  Liverpool  to  a  West  End  church  in  Lon- 
don. There  he  had  proved  hitherto  an  aston- 
ishing success.  On  Hospital  Sundays  the  total 
sums  collected  from  his  flock  were  by  far  the  larg- 
est that  came  from  the  pockets  of  any  congrega- 
tion in  London.  The  music  in  St.  Joseph's  was 
allowed  by  connoisseurs,  who  knew  their  Elgar 
as  well  as  their  Goss,  their  Perosi  as  well  as  their 
Bach,  and  their  Wesley,  to  be  remarkable.  Criti- 
cal persons,  mostly  men,  who  sat  on  the  fence  be- 
tween Orthodoxy  and  Atheism,  thought  highly 


THE  DWELLER 

of  Mr.  Harding's  sermons,  and  even  sometimes 
came  down  on  his  side.  And,  of  all  signs  surely 
the  most  promising  for  a  West  End  clergyman's 
success,  smart  people  flocked  to  him  to  be  married, 
and  Arum  lilies  were  perpetually  being  carried 
in  and  out  of  his  chancel,  which  was  adorned  with 
Morris  windows.  He  was  married  to  a  woman 
who  managed  to  be  admirable  without  being  dull, 
Lady  Sophia,  daughter  of  the  late  Earl  of  Mans- 
ford,  and  sister  of  the  present  peer.  He  was  com- 
fortably off.  His  health  as  a  rule  was  good, 
though  occasionally  he  suffered  from  some  obscure 
form  of  dyspepsia.  And  he  was  still  compara- 
tively young,  just  forty-eight. 

Nevertheless,  as  Evelyn  Mailing  immediately 
perceived,  Mr.  Harding  was  not  a  happy  man. 

In  appearance  he  was  remarkable.  Of  com- 
manding height,  with  a  big  frame,  a  striking  head 
and  countenance,  and  a  pair  of  keen  gray  eyes,  he 
looked  like  a  man  who  was  intended  by  nature 
to  dominate.  White  threads  appeared  in  his 
thick  brown  hair,  which  he  wore  parted  in  the 
middle.  But  his  face,  which  was  clean-shaven, 
had  not  many  telltale  lines.  And  he  did  not  look 
more  than  his  age. 

The.  sadness  noted  by  Mailing  was  at  first 
evasive  and  fleeting,  not  indellibly  fixed  in  the 

4 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

puckers  of  a  forehead,  or  in  the  down-drawn  cor- 
ners of  a  mouth.  It  was  as  a  thin,  almost  im- 
palpable mist,  that  can  scarcely  be  seen,  yet  that 
alters  all  the  features  in  a  landscape  ever  so 
faintly.  Like  a  shadow  it  traveled  across  the 
eyes,  obscured  the  forehead,  lay  about  the  lips. 
And  as  a  shadow  lifts  it  lifted.  But  it  soon  re- 
turned, like  a  thing  uneasy  that  is  becoming  de- 
termined to  discover  an  abiding-place. 

Mailing's  first  meeting  with  the  clergyman  took 
place  upon  Westminster  Bridge  on  an  afternoon 
in  early  May,  when  London  seemed,  almost  like 
a  spirited  child,  to  be  flinging  itself  with  abandon 
into  the  first  gaieties  of  the  season.  Mailing  was 
alone,  coming  on  foot  from  Waterloo.  Mr. 
Harding  was  also  on  foot,  with  his  senior  curate, 
the  Rev.  Henry  Chichester,  who  was  an  acquaint- 
ance of  Mailing,  but  whom  Mailing  had  not  seen 
for  a  considerable  period  of  time,  having  been  out 
on  his  estate  in  Ceylon.  At  the  moment  when 
Mailing  arrived  upon  the  bridge  the  two  clergy- 
men were  standing  by  the  parapet  on  the  Parlia- 
ment side,  looking  out  over  the  river.  As  he 
drew  near  to  them  the  curate  glanced  suddenly 
round,  saw  him,  and  uttered  an  involuntary 
exclamation  which  attracted  Mr.  Harding's  at- 
tention. 

5 


THE  DWELLER 

"  Telepathy !  "  said  Chichester,  shaking  Mai- 
ling by  the  hand.  "  I  believe  I  looked  round  be- 
cause I  knew  I  should  see  you.  Yet  I  supposed 
you  to  be  still  in  Ceylon."  He  glanced  at  the  rec- 
tor rather  doubtfully,  seemed  to  take  a  resolution, 
and  with  an  air  almost  of  doggedness  added, 
"  May  I  ?  "  and  introduced  the  two  men  to  one 
another. 

Mr.  Harding  observed  the  new-comer  with  an 
interest  that  was  unmistakable. 

"  You  are  the  Mr.  Mailing  of  whom  Professor 
Stepton  has  spoken  to  me,"  he  said, — "  who  has 
done  so  much  experimental  work  for  him?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  The  professor  comes  to  my  church  now  and 
then." 

"  I  have  heard  him  say  so." 
'  You  saw  we  were  looking  at  the  river?     Be- 
fore I  came  to  London  I  was  at  Liverpool,  and 
learned  there  to  love  great  rivers.     There  is  some- 
thing in  a  great  river  that  reminds  us  — " 

He  caught  his  curate's  eye  and  was  silent. 

"Are  you  walking  my  way?"  asked  Mailing. 
"  I  am  going  by  the  Abbey  and  Victoria  Street  to 
Cadogan  Square." 

1  Then  we  will  accompany  you  as  far  as  Vic- 
toria Station,"  said  the  rector. 

6 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

"  You  don't  think  it  would  be  wiser  to  take  a 
hansom?"  began  Chichester.  "You  remem- 
ber—" 

"  No,  no,  certainly  not.  Walking  always  does 
me  good,"  rejoined  Mr.  Harding,  almost  in  a 
tone  of  rebuke. 

The  curate  said  nothing  more,  and  the  three 
men  set  out  toward  Parliament  Square,  Mailing 
walking  between  the  two  clergymen. 

He  felt  embarrassed,  and  this  surprised  him, 
for  he  was  an  extremely  self-reliant  man  and  en- 
tirely free  from  shyness.  At  first  he  thought  that 
possibly  his  odd  discomfort  arose  from  the  fact 
that  he  was  in  company  with  two  men  who,  per- 
haps, had  quite  recently  had  a  difference  which 
they  were  endeavoring  out  of  courtesy  to  conceal 
from  him.  Perhaps  there  had  been  a  slight  quar- 
rel over  some  parish  matter.  Certainly  when  he 
first  spoke  with  them  there  had  been  something  un- 
easy, a  suspicion  of  strain,  in  the  manner  of  both. 
But  then  he  remembered  how,  before  Chichester 
had  turned  round,  they  had  been  leaning  amicably 
above  the  river. 

No,  it  could  not  be  that.  He  sought  mentally 
for  some  other  reason.  But  while  he  did  so  he 
talked,  and  endeavored  to  rid  himself  promptly 
of  the  unwelcome  feeling  that  beset  him. 

7 


THE  DWELLER 

In  this  effort,  however,  he  did  not  at  first  suc- 
ceed. The  "  conditions "  were  evidently  unsat- 
isfactory. He  wondered  whether  if  he  were  not 
walking  between  the  two  men  he  would  feel  more 
comfortable,  and  presently,  at  a  crossing,  he  man- 
aged to  change  his  place.  He  was  now  next  to 
Mr.  Harding,  who  had  the  curate  on  his  other 
side,  and  at  once  he  felt  more  at  his  ease.  The 
rector  of  St.  Joseph's  led  the  conversation,  in 
which  Mailing  joined,  and  at  first  the  curate  was 
silent.  But  presently  Mailing  noticed  a  thing 
that  struck  him  as  odd.  Chichester  began  to 
"  chip  in  "  now  and  then,  and  whenever  he  did 
so  it  was  either  to  modify  what  Mr.  Harding  had 
just  said,  or  to  check  him  in  what  he  was  saying, 
or  abruptly  to  introduce  a  new  topic  of  talk. 
Sometimes  Mr.  Harding  did  not  appear  to  notice 
these  interruptions;  at  other  times  he  obviously 
resented  them;  at  others  again  he  yielded  with 
an  air  of  anxiety,  almost  of  fear,  to  his  curate's 
attenuations  or  hastened  to  follow  his  somewhat 
surprising  leads  down  new  conversational  paths. 
Mailing  could  not  understand  Chichester.  But 
it  became  evident  to  him  that  for  some  reason 
or  other  the  curate  was  painfully  critical  of  his 
rector,  as  sometimes  highly  sensitive  people  are 

8 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

critical  of  members  of  their  own  family.  And 
Mr.  Harding  was  certainly  aware  of  this  critical 
attitude,  and  at  moments  seemed  to  be  defiant  of 
it,  at  other  moments  to  be  almost  terrorized  by 
it. 

All  that  passed,  be  it  noted,  passed  as  between 
gentlemen,  rather  glided  in  the  form  of  nuance 
than  trampled  heavily  in  more  blatant  guise. 
But  Evelyn  Mailing  was  a  highly  trained  ob- 
server and  a  man  in  whom  investigation  had  be- 
come a  habit.  Now  that  he  was  no  longer  ill 
at  ease  he  became  deeply  interested  in  the  relations 
between  the  two  men  with  whom  he  was  walking. 
He  was  unable  to  understand  them,  and  this  fact 
of  course  increased  his  interest.  Moreover  he 
was  surprised  by  the  change  he  observed  in  Chi- 
chester. 

Although  he  had  never  been  intimate  with 
Henry  Chichester,  he  had  known  him  fairly  well, 
and  had  summed  him  up  as  a  very  good  man  and 
a  decidedly  attractive  man,  but  marred,  as  Mai- 
ling thought,  by  a  definite  weakness  of  character. 
He  had  been  too  amiable,  too  ready  to  take  others 
on  their  own  valuation  of  themselves,  too  kind- 
hearted,  and  too  easily  deceived.  The  gentle- 
ness of  a  saint  had  been  his,  but  scarcely  the  firm- 

9 


THE  DWELLER 

ness  of  a  saint.  Industrious,  dutiful,  and  consci- 
entious, he  had  not  struck  Mailing  as  a  man  of 
strong  intellect,  though  he  was  a  cultivated  and 
well-educated  man.  Though  not  governed  by 
his  own  passions, —  when  one  looked  at  him  one 
had  been  inclined  to  doubt  whether  he  had  any, 
—  he  had  seemed  prone  to  be  governed  by  those 
about  him,  at  any  rate  in  little  matters  of  every 
day.  His  charm  had  consisted  in  his  transparent 
goodness,  and  in  an  almost  gay  kindliness  which 
had  seemed  to  float  round  him  like  an  atmos- 
phere. To  look  into  his  face  had  been  to  look 
at  the  happiness  which  comes  only  to  those  who 
do  right  things,  and  are  at  peace  with  their  own 
souls. 

What  could  have  happened  to  change  this 
charming,  if  too  pliant,  personality  into  the  criti- 
cal, watchful,  almost  —  so  at  moments  it  seemed 
to  Mailing  —  aggressive  curate  who  was  now, 
always  in  a  gentlemanly  way,  making  things  rather 
difficult  for  his  rector? 

And  the  matter  became  the  more  mysterious 
when  Mailing  considered  Mr.  Harding.  For 
here  was  a  man  obviously  of  dominant  personality. 
Despite  his  fleeting  subservience  to  Chichester,  in- 
explicable to  Mailing,  he  was  surely  by  far  the 
stronger  of  the  two,  both  in  intellect  and  charac- 

10 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

ter.  Not  so  saintly,  perhaps,  he  was  more  likely 
to  influence  others.  Firmness  showed  in  his  forci- 
ble chin,  energy  in  the  large  lines  of  his  mouth, 
decision  in  his  clear-cut  features.  Yet  there  was 
something  contradictory  in  his  face.  And  the 
flitting  melancholy,  already  remarked,  surely 
hinted  at  some  secret  instability,  perhaps  known 
only  to  Harding  himself,  perhaps  known  to  Chi- 
chester  also. 

When  the  three  men  came  to  the  turning  at 
the  corner  of  the  Grosvenor  Hotel,  Chichester 
stopped  short. 

"  Here  is  our  way,"  he  said,  speaking  across 
Mr.  Harding  to  Mailing. 

The  rector  looked  at  Mailing. 

"  Have  you  far  to  go?  "  he  asked,  with  rather 
a  tentative  air. 

"  I  live  in  Cadogan  Square." 

"  Of  course.  I  remember.  You  told  us  you 
were  going  there." 

"  Good-by,"  said  Chichester.  "  We  are  taking 
the  underground  to  South  Kensington." 

"  I  think  I  shall  walk,"  said  the  rector. 

"  But  you  know  we  are  due  — " 

"  There  is  plenty  of  time.  Tell  them  I  shall 
be  there  at  four." 

"But  really—" 

II 


THE  DWELLER 

"  Punctually  at  four.  I  will  walk  on  with 
Mr.  Mailing." 

"  I  really  think  you  had  better  not,"  began  Chi- 
chester.  "  Over-exertion  — " 

"Am  I  an  invalid?"  exclaimed  Mr.  Harding, 
almost  sharply. 

"  No,  no,  of  course  not.  But  you  remember 
that  yesterday  you  were  not  quite  well." 

"  That  is  the  very  reason  why  I  wish  to  walk. 
Exercise  always  does  my  dyspepsia  good." 

"  Let  us  all  walk,"  said  the  curate,  abruptly. 

But  this  was  obviously  not  Mr.  Harding's  in- 
tention. 

"  I  want  you  to  go  through  the  minutes  and  the 
accounts  before  the  meeting,"  he  said,  in  a  quieter 
but  decisive  voice.  "  We  will  meet  at  the 
School  at  four.  You  will  have  plenty  of  time  if 
you  take  the  train.  And  meanwhile  Mr.  Mai- 
ling and  I  will  go  on  foot  together  as  far  as  Cado- 
gan  Square." 

Chichester  stood  for  a  moment  staring  into 
Mr.  Harding's  face,  then  he  said,  almost  sulkily : 

"  Very  well.     Good-by." 

He  turned  on  his  heel,  and  was  lost  in  the 
throng  near  the  station. 

It  seemed  to  Mailing  that  an  expression  of  relief 
overspread  his  companion's  face. 

12 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

"You  don't  mind  my  company  for  a  little 
longer,  I  hope?  "  said  the  rector. 

"  I  shall  be  glad  to  have  it." 

They  set  out  on  their  walk  to  Cadogan  Square. 
After  two  or  three  minutes  of  silence  the  rector 
remarked : 

"  You  know  Chichester  well?  " 

"  I  can  hardly  say  that.  I  used  to  .meet  him 
sometimes  with  some  friends  of  mine,  the  Cres- 
pignys.  But  I  have  n't  seen  him  for  more  than 
two  years." 

"  He  's  a  very  good  fellow." 

"  An  excellent  fellow." 

"  Perhaps  a  little  bit  limited  in  his  outlook. 
He  has  been  with  me  at  St.  Joseph's  exactly  two 
years." 

The  rector  seemed  about  to  say  more,  then  shut 
his  large  mouth  almost  with  a  snap.  Mailing 
made  no  remark.  He  was  quite  certain  that  snap 
was  merely  the  preliminary  to  some  further  re- 
mark about  Chichester.  And  so  it  proved.  As 
they  came  to  St.  Peter's  Eaton  Square,  the  rector 
resumed : 

"  I  often  think  that  it  is  a  man's  limitations 
which  make  him  critical  of  others.  The  more 
one  knows,  the  wider  one's  outlook,  the  readier 
one  is  to  shut  one's  eyes  to  the  foibles,  even  to  the 

13 


THE  DWELLER 

faults,  of  one's  neighbors.     I  have  tried  to  impress 
that  upon  our  friend  Chichester." 

"  Does  n't  he  agree  with  you?  " 

"Well  —  it's  difficult  to  say,  difficult  to  say. 
Shall  we  go  by  Wilton  Place,  or  —  ?  " 

11  Certainly." 

"  Professor  Stepton  has  talked  to  me  about  you 
from  time  to  time,  Mr.  Mailing." 

"  He  's  a  remarkable  man,"  said  Mailing  al- 
most with  enthusiasm. 

"  Yes.  He 's  finding  his  way  to  the  truth 
rather  by  the  pathway  of  science  than  by  the  path- 
way of  faith.  But  he  's  a  man  I  respect.  And  I 
believe  he  '11  get  out  into  the  light.  You  've  done 
a  great  deal  of  work  for  him,  I  understand,  in  — 
in  occult  directions." 

"  I  have  made  a  good  many  careful  investiga- 
tions at  his  suggestion." 

"  Exactly.  Now  " —  Mr.  Harding  paused, 
seemed  to  make  an  effort,  and  continued  — "  we 
know  very  little  even  now,  with  all  that  has  been 
done,  as  to  —  to  the  possibilities  —  I  scarcely 
know  how  to  put  it  —  the  possibilities  of  the  soul." 

"  Very  little  indeed,"  rejoined  Mailing. 

He  was  considerably  surprised  by  his  compan- 
ion's manner,  but  was  quite  resolved  not  to  help 
him  out. 

14 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

"  The  possibilities  of  one  soul,  let  us  say,  in 
connection  with  another,"  continued  the  rector,  al- 
most in  a  faltering  voice.  "  I  often  feel  as  if  the 
soul  were  a  sort  of  mysterious  fluid,  and  that  when 
we  what  is  called  influence  another  person,  we, 
as  it  were,  submerge  his  soul  fluid  in  our  own,  as 
a  drop  of  water  might  be  submerged  in  an  ocean." 

"  Ah!  "  said  Mailing,  laconically. 

Mr.  Harding  shot  a  rather  sharp  glance  at  him. 

"  You  don't  object  to  my  getting  on  this  subject, 
I  hope?  "  he  observed. 

"  Certainly  not." 

"  Perhaps  you  think  it  rather  a  strange  one  for 
a  clergyman  to  select?" 

"  Oh,  no.  I  have  known  many  clergymen  deeply 
interested  in  Stepton's  investigations." 

Mr.  Harding's  face,  which  had  been  cloudy, 
cleared. 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  he  said,  "  that  we  clergymen 
have  a  special  reason  for  desiring  Stepton,  and  all 
Stepton's  assistants,  to  make  progress.  It  is  true, 
of  course,  that  we  live  by  faith.  And  nothing 
can  be  more  beautiful  than  a  childlike  faith  in  the 
Great  Being  who  is  above  all  worlds,  in  the  anima 
mundi.  But  it  would  be  unnatural  in  us  if  we  did 
not  earnestly  desire  that  our  faith  be  proved,  scien- 
tifically proved,  to  be  well-founded.  I  speak  now 

15 


THE  DWELLER 

of  the  faith  we  Christians  hold  in  a  life  beyond 
the  grave.  I  know  many  people  who  think  it  very 
wrong  in  a  clergyman  to  mix  himself  up  in  any 
occult  experiments.  But  I  don't  agree  with 
them." 

It  was  now  Mailing's  turn  to  look  sharply  at  his 
companion. 

"  Have  you  made  many  experiments  yourself, 
may  I  ask?  "  he  said  very  bluntly. 

The  clergyman  started,  and  was  obviously  em- 
barrassed by  the  question. 

*4 1 1  Oh,  I  was  speaking  generally.  I  am  a 
very  busy  man,  you  see.  What  with  my  church 
and  my  parish,  and  one  thing  and  another,  I  get 
very  little  time  for  outside  things.  Still  I  am 
greatly  interested,  I  confess,  in  all  that  Stepton 
is  doing." 

"Does  Mr.  Chichester  share  your  interest?" 
said  Mailing. 

"  In  a  minor  degree,  in  a  minor  degree,"  an- 
swered the  rector,  rather  evasively. 

They  were  now  in  Sloane  Street  and  Mailing 
said: 

"  I  must  turn  off  here." 

"  I  '11  go  with  you  as  far  as  your  door  if  you  Ve 
no  objection,"  said  the  rector,  who  seemed  very 

16 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

loath  to  leave  his  companion.     "  It 's  odd  how 
men  change,  isn't  it?" 

"  As  they  grow  older?  But  surely  develop- 
ment is  natural  and  to  be  expected?  " 

"  Certainly.  But  when  a  man  changes  dras- 
tically, sheds  his  character  and  takes  on  another?  " 

"  You  are  talking  perhaps  of  what  is  called  con- 
version? " 

'  Well,  that  would  be  an  instance  of  what  I 
mean,  no  doubt.  But  there  are  changes  of  an- 
other type.  We  clergymen,  you  know,  mix  inti- 
mately with  so  many  men  that  we  are  almost  bound 
to  become  psychologists  if  we  are  to  do  any  good. 
It  becomes  a  habit  with  many  of  us  to  study  closely 
our  fellow-men.  Now  I,  for  instance;  I  cannot 
live  at  close  quarters  with  a  man  without,  almost 
unconsciously,  subjecting  him  to  a  minute  scrutiny, 
and  striving  to  sum  him  up.  My  curates,  for 
example  — " 

"Yes?  "said  Mailing. 

"  There  are  four  of  them,  our  friend  Chiches- 
ter  being  the  senior  one." 

"  And  you  have  '  placed  '  them  all?  " 

"  I  thought  I  had,  I  thought  so  —  but  — " 

Mr.  Harding  was  silent.  Then,  with  a  strange 
abruptness,  and  the  air  of  a  man  forced  into  an 

17 


THE  DWELLER 

action   against  which  something  within  him  pro- 
tested, he  said: 

"  Mr.  Mailing,  you  are  the  only  person  I  know 
who,  having  been  acquainted  with  Henry  Chiches- 
ter,  has  at  last  met  him  again  after  a  prolonged 
interval  of  separation.  Two  years,  you  said. 
People  who  see  a  man  from  day  to  day  observe 
very  little  or  nothing.  Changes  occur  and  are  not 
noticed  by  them.  A  man  and  his  wife  live  to- 
gether and  grow  old.  But  does  either  ever  notice 
when  the  face  of  the  other  begins  first  to  lose  its 
bloom,  to  take  on  that  peculiar,  unmistakable 
stamp  that  the  passage  of  the  years  sets  on  us  all? 
Few  of  us  really  see  what  is  always  before  us.  But 
the  man  who  comes  back  —  he  sees.  Tell  me  the 
honest  truth,  I  beg  of  you.  Do  you  or  do  you 
not,  see  a  great  change  in  Henry  Chichester?  " 

The  rector's  voice  had  risen  while  he  spoke,  till 
it  almost  clamored  for  reply.  His  eyes  were  more 
clamorous  still,  insistent  in  their  demand  upon 
Mailing.  Nevertheless  voice  and  eyes  pushed 
Mailing  toward  caution.  Something  within  him 
said,  "  Be  careful  what  you  do !  "  and,  acting 
surprise,  he  answered : 

"  Chichester  changed!     In  what  way?  " 

The  rector's  countenance  fell. 
18 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

"  You  have  n't  observed  it?  " 

"  Remember  I  Ve  only  seen  him  to-day  and 
walking  in  the  midst  of  crowds." 

"  Quite  true !     Quite  true !  " 

Mr.  Harding  meditated  for  a  minute,  and  then 
said: 

"  Mr.  Mailing,  I  daresay  my  conduct  to-day 
may  surprise  you.  You  may  think  it  odd  of  me 
to  be  so  frank,  seeing  that  you  and  I  have  not  met 
before.  But  Stepton  has  told  me  so  much  about 
you  that  I  cannot  feel  we  are  quite  strangers.  I 
should  like  you  to  have  an  opportunity  of  observ- 
ing Henry  Chichester  without  prejudice.  I  will 
say  nothing  more.  But  if  I  invite  you  to  meet 
him,  in  my  house  or  elsewhere,  will  you  promise 
me  to  come?  " 

"  Certainly,  if  I  possibly  can." 

"  And  your  address?  " 

Mailing  stopped  and,  smiling,  pointed  to  the 
number  outside  a  house. 

"You  live  here?" 

Mr.  Harding  took  a  small  book  and  a  pencil 
from  his  pocket  and  noted  down  the  address. 

"  Good-by,"  he  said.  "  I  live  in  Onslow  Gar- 
dens—  Number  89." 

"  Thank  you.     Good-by." 

19 


THE  DWELLER 

The  two  men  shook  hands.  Then  Mr.  Har- 
ding went  on  his  way  toward  South  Kensington, 
while  Mailing  inserted  his  latch-key  into  the  door 
of  Number  yb,  Cadogan  Square. 


20 


II 

EVELYN  MALLING  was  well  accustomed 
to  meeting  with  strange  people  and  making 
investigations  into  strange  occurrences.  He  was 
not  easily  surprised,  nor  was  he  easily  puzzled. 
By  nature  more  skeptical  than  credulous,  he  had  a 
cool  brain,  and  he  was  seldom,  if  ever,  the  victim 
of  his  imagination.  But  on  the  evening  of  the 
day  in  question  he  found  himself  continually  dwell- 
ing, and  with  a  curiously  heated  mind,  upon  the 
encounter  of  that  afternoon.  Mr.  Harding's 
manner  in  the  latter  part  of  their  walk  together 
had  —  he  scarcely  knew  why  —  profoundly  im- 
pressed him.  He  longed  to  see  the  clergyman 
again.  He  longed,  almost  more  ardently,  to  pay 
a  visit  to  Henry  Chichester.  Although  the  in- 
stinct of  caution,  which  had  perhaps  been  developed 
in  him  by  his  work  among  mediums,  cranks  of  vari- 
ous kinds,  and  charlatans,  had  prevented  him  from 
letting  the  rector  know  that  he  had  been  struck 
by  the  change  in  the  senior  curate,  that  change 
had  greatly  astonished  him.  Yet  was  it  really  so 
very  marked?  He  had  noticed  it  before  his  at- 

21 


THE  DWELLER 

tention  had  been  drawn  to  it.  That  he  knew. 
But  was  he  not  now,  perhaps,  exaggerating  its 
character,  "  suggestioned  "  as  it  were  by  the  obvi- 
ous turmoil  of  Mr.  Harding?  He  wondered,  and 
was  disturbed  by  his  wonderment.  Two  or  three 
times  he  got  up,  with  the  intention  of  jumping 
into  a  cab,  and  going  to  Westminster  to  find  out 
if  Professor  Stepton  was  in  town.  But  he  only 
got  as  far  as  the  hall.  Then  something  seemed 
to  check  him.  He  told  himself  that  he  was  in  no 
fit  condition  to  meet  the  sharp  eyes  of  the  man 
of  science,  who  delighted  in  his  somewhat  frigid 
attitude  of  mind  toward  all  supposed  supernormal 
manifestations,  and  he  returned  to  his  study  and 
tried  to  occupy  himself  with  a  book. 

On  the  occasion  of  his  last  return,  just  as  he  was 
about  to  sit  down,  his  eyes  chanced  to  fall  on  an 
almanac  framed  in  silver  which  stood  on  his  writ- 
ing-table. He  took  it  up  and  stared  at  it.  May 
8,  Friday — May  9,  Saturday — May  10,  Sun- 
day. It  was  May  9.  He  put  the  almanac  back  on 
the  table  with  a  sudden  sense  of  relief.  For  he 
had  come  to  a  decision. 

To-morrow  he  would  attend  morning  service 
at  St.  Joseph's. 

Mailing  was  not  a  regular  church-goer.  He  be- 
longed to  the  Stepton  breed.  But  he  was  an  earn- 

22 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

est  man  and  no  scoffer,  and  some  of  his  best  friends 
were  priests  and  clergymen.  Nevertheless  it  was 
in  a  rather  unusual  go-to-meeting  frame  of  mind 
that  he  got  into  a  tail-coat  and  top  hat,  and  set 
forth  in  a  hansom  to  St.  Joseph's  the  next  morning. 

He  had  never  been  there  before.  As  he  drew 
near  he  found  people  flowing  toward  the  great 
church  on  foot,  in  cabs  and  carriages.  Evidently 
Mr.  Harding  had  attractive  powers,  and  Mailing 
began  to  wonder  whether  he  would  have  any  diffi- 
culty in  obtaining  the  seat  he  wanted,  in  some  cor- 
ner from  which  he  could  get  a  good  view  both  of 
the  chancel  and  the  pulpit.  Were  vergers  "  briba- 
ble "  ?  What  an  ignoramus  he  was  about  church 
matters ! 

He  smiled  to  himself  as  he  paid  the  cabman 
and  joined  the  stream  of  church-goers  which  was 
passing  in  through  the  open  door. 

Just  as  he  was  entering  the  building  some  one  in 
the  crowd  by  accident  jostled  him,  and  he  was 
pushed  rather  roughly  against  a  tall  lady  imme- 
diately before  him.  She  turned  round  with  a 
startled  face,  and  Mailing  hastily  begged  her  par- 
don. 

"  I  was  pushed,"  he  said.     "  Forgive  me." 

The  lady  smiled,  her  lips  moved,  doubtless  in 
some  words  of  conventional  acceptance,  then  she 

23 


THE  DWELLER 

disappeared  in  the  throng,  taking  her  way  toward 
the  left  of  the  church.  She  was  a  slim  woman, 
with  a  white  streak  in  her  dark  hair  just  above 
the  forehead.  Her  face,  which  was  refined  and 
handsome,  had  given  to  Mailing  a  strong  impres- 
sion of  anxiety.  Even  when  it  had  smiled  it  had 
looked  almost  tragically  anxious,  he  thought. 
The  church  was  seated  with  chairs,  and  a  man, 
evidently  an  attendant,  told  him  that  all  the  chairs 
in  the  right  and  left  aisles  were  free.  He  made 
his  way  to  the  right,  and  was  fortunate  enough  to 
get  one  not  far  from  the  pulpit.  Unluckily,  from 
it  he  could  only  see  the  left-hand  side  of  the  choir. 
But  the  preacher  would  be  full  in  his  view.  The 
organ  sounded;  the  procession  appeared.  Over 
the  heads  of  worshipers  —  he  was  a  tall  man  — 
Mailing  perceived  both  Mr.  Harding  and  Chiches- 
ter.  The  latter  took  his  place  at  the  end  of  the 
left-hand  row  of  light-colored  oaken  stalls  next 
to  the  congregation.  Mailing  could  see  him  well. 
But  the  rector  was  hidden  from  him.  He  fixed 
his  eyes  upon  Chichester. 

The  service  went  on  its  way.  The  music  was 
excellent.  A  fair  young  man,  who  looked  as  if 
he  might  be  a  first-rate  cricketer,  one  of  the  curates 
no  doubt,  read  the  lessons.  Chichester  intoned 
with  an  agreeable  light  tenor  voice.  During  the 

24 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

third  hymn,  "  Fight  the  Good  Fight,"  Mr.  Hard- 
ing mounted  into  the  pulpit.  He  let  down  the 
brass  reading-desk.  He  had  no  notes  in  his  hands. 
Evidently  he  was  going  to  preach  extempore. 
After  the  "  In  the  name  of  the  Father,  and  of  the 
Son,  and  of  the  Holy  Ghost "  had  been  pro- 
nounced, Mailing  settled  himself  to  listen.  He 
felt  tensely  interested.  Both  Mr.  Harding  and 
Chichester  were  now  before  him,  the  one  as  per- 
former—  he  used  the  word  mentally,  with  no 
thought  of  irreverence  —  the  other  as  audience. 
He  could  study  both  as  he  wished  to  study  them  at 
that  moment. 

Chichester  was  a  small,  cherubic  man,  with  blue 
eyes,  fair  hair,  and  neat  features,  the  sort  of  man 
who  looks  as  if  when  a  boy  he  must  have  been  the 
leading  choir-boy  in  a  cathedral.  There  was  noth- 
ing powerful  in  his  face,  but  much  that  was  ami- 
able and  winning.  His  chin  and  his  forehead  were 
rather  weak.  His  eyes  and  his  mouth  looked 
good.  Or  —  did  they? 

Mailing  found  himself  wondering  as  Mr.  Har- 
ding preached. 

And  was  Mr.  Harding  the  powerful  preacher  he 
was  reputed  to  be? 

At  first  he  held  his  congregation.  That  was 
evident.  Rows  of  rapt  faces  gazed  up  at  him,  as 


THE  DWELLER 

he  leaned  over  the  edge  of  the  pulpit,  or  stood 
upright  with  his  hands  pressed  palm  downward 
upon  it.  But  it  seemed  to  Mailing  that  he  held 
them  rather  because  of  his  reputation,  because  of 
what  they  confidently  expected  of  him,  because  of 
what  he  had  done  in  the  past,  than  because  of  what 
he  was  actually  doing.  And  presently  they  slipped 
out  of  his  grasp.  He  lost  them. 

The  first  thing  that  is  necessary  in  an  orator,  if 
he  is  to  be  successful  with  an  audience,  is  confi- 
dence in  himself,  a  conviction  that  he  has  some- 
thing to  say  which  is  worth  saying,  which  has  to  be 
said.  Mailing  perceived  that  on  this  Sunday 
morning  Mr.  Harding  possessed  neither  self-con- 
fidence nor  conviction;  though  he  made  a  deter- 
mined, almost  a  violent,  effort  to  pretend  that  he 
had  both.  He  took  as  the  theme  of  his  discourse 
self-knowledge,  and  as  his  motto  —  so  he  called 
it  —  the  words,  "  Know  thyself."  This  was 
surely  a  promising  subject.  He  began  to  treat  it 
with  vigor.  But  very  soon  it  became  evident  that 
he.  was  ill  at  ease,  as  an  actor,  becomes  who  cannot 
get  into  touch  with  his  audience.  He  stumbled 
now  and  then  in  his  sentences,  harked  back,  cor- 
rected a  phrase,  modified  a  thought,  attenuated  a 
statement.  Then,  evidently  bracing  himself  up, 
..almost  aggressively  he  delivered  a  few  passages 

26 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

that  were  eloquent  enough.  But  the  indecision  re- 
turned, became  more  painful.  He  even  contra- 
dicted himself.  A  "  No,  that  is  not  so.  I  should 
say  — "  communicated  grave  doubts  as  to  his  pow- 
ers of  clear  thinking  to  the  now  confused  congre- 
gation. People  began  to  cough  and  to  shift  about 
in  their  chairs.  A  lady  just  beneath  the  pulpit 
unfolded  a  large  fan  and  waved  it  slowly  to  and 
fro.  Mr.  Harding  paused,  gazed  at  the  fan, 
looked  away  from  it,  wiped  his  forehead  with  a 
handkerchief,  grasped  the  pulpit  ledge,  and  went 
on  speaking,  but  now  with  almost  a  faltering  voice. 

The  congregation  were  doubtless  ignorant  of 
the  cause  of  their  pastor's  perturbation,  but  Mai- 
ling felt  sure  that  he  knew  what  it  was. 

The  cause  was  Henry  Chichester. 

On  the  cherubic  face  of  the  senior  curate,  as  he 
leaned  back  in  his  stall  while  Mr.  Harding  gave 
out  the  opening  words  of  the  sermon,  there  had 
been  an  expression  that  was  surely  one  of  anxiety, 
such  as  a  master's  face  wears  when  his  pupil  is 
about  to  give  some  public  exhibition.  That  simile 
came  at  once  into  Mailing's  mind.  It  was  the 
master  listening  to  the  pupil,  fearing  for,  criti- 
cizing, striving  mentally  to  convey  help  to  the  pu- 
pil. And  as  the  sermon  went  on  it  was  obvious 
to  Mailing  that  the  curate  was  not  satisfied  .with 

27 


THE  DWELLER 

it,  and  that  his  dissatisfaction  was,  as  it  were, 
breaking  the  rector  down.  At  certain  statements 
of  Mr.  Harding  looks  of  contempt  flashed  over 
Chichester's  face,  transforming  it.  The  anxiety 
of  the  master,  product  of  vanity  but  also  of  sym- 
pathy, was  overlaid  by  the  powerful  contempt  of 
a  man  who  longs  to  traverse  misstatements  but  is 
forced  by  circumstances  to  keep  silence.  And  so 
certain  was  Mailing  that  the  cause  of  Mr.  Har- 
ding's  perturbation  lay  in  Chichester's  mental  atti- 
tude, that  he  longed  to  spring  up,  to  take  the 
curate  by  the  shoulders  and  to  thrust  him  out  of 
the  church.  Then  all  would  be  well.  He  knew 
it.  The  rector's  self-confidence  would  return  and, 
with  it,  his  natural  powers. 

But  now  the  situation  was  becoming  painful, 
almost  unbearable. 

With  every  sentence  the  rector  became  more  in- 
volved, more  hesitating,  more  impotent.  The 
sweat  ran  down  his  face.  Even  his  fine  voice  was 
affected.  It  grew  husky.  It  seemed  to  be  failing. 
Yet  he  would  not  cease.  To  Mailing  he  gave  the 
impression  of  a  man  governed  by  a  secret  obstinacy, 
fighting  on  though  he  knew  it  was  no  use,  that  he 
had  lost  the  combat.  Mailing  longed  to  cry  out 
to  him,  "  Give  it  up !  " 

The  congregation   coughed  more  persistently, 
28 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

and  the  lady  with  the  fan  began  to  ply  her  instru- 
ment of  torture  almost  hysterically. 

Suddenly  Mailing  felt  obliged  to  look  toward 
the  left  of  the  crowded  church.  Sitting  up  very 
straight,  and  almost  craning  his  neck,  he  stared 
over  the  heads  of  the  fidgeting  people  and  met  the 
eyes  of  a  woman,  the  lady  with  the  streak  of 
white  hair  against  whom  he  had  pushed  when 
coming  in. 

There  was  a  look  almost  of  anguish  on  her  face. 
She  turned  her  eyes  toward  Mr.  Harding.  At 
the  same  instant  the  rector  saw  Mailing  in  the  con- 
gregation. He  stopped  short,  muttered  an  un- 
even sentence,  then,  forcing  his  voice,  uttered  in 
unnaturally  loud  tones  the  "  Now  to  God  the 
Father,"  et  cetera. 

Henry  Chichester  rose  in  his  stall  with  an 
expression  of  intense  thankfulness,  which  yet 
seemed  somehow  combined  with  a  sneer. 

The  collection  was  made. 

Before  the  celebration  some  of  the  choir  and 
two  of  the  clergy,  of  whom  Mr.  Harding  was  one, 
left  the  church.  Henry  Chichester  and  the  fair, 
athletic-looking  curate  remained.  Mailing  took 
his  hat  and  made  his  way  slowly  to  the  door.  As 
he  emerged  a  young  man  stopped  him  and  said: 

"  If  you  please,  sir,  the  rector  would  like  to 
29 


THE  DWELLER 

speak  to  you  if  you  could  wait  just  a  moment. 
You  are  Mr.  Mailing,  I  believe." 

"  Yes.     How  could  you  know?  " 

"  Mr.  Harding  told  me  what  you  were  like,  sir, 
and  that  you  were  wearing  a  tie  with  a  large  green 
stone  in  it.  Begging  your  pardon,  sir." 

"  I  will  wait,"  said  Mailing,  marveling  at  the 
rector's  rapid  and  accurate  powers  of  observation. 

Those  of  the  congregation  who  had  not  re- 
mained for  the  celebration  were  quickly  dispers- 
ing, but  Mailing  now  noticed  that  the  lady  with 
the  white  lock  was,  like  himself,  waiting  for  some 
one.  She  stood  not  far  from  him.  She  was  hold- 
ing a  parasol,  and  looking  down;  she  moved  its 
point  to  and  fro  on  the  ground.  Several  people 
greeted  her.  Almost  as  if  startled  she  glanced 
up  quickly,  smiled,  replied.  Then,  as  they  went 
on,  she  again  looked  down.  There  was  a  pucker 
in  her  brow.  Her  lips  twitched  now  and  then. 

Suddenly  she  lifted  her  head,  turned  and  forced 
her  quivering  mouth  to  smile.  Mr.  Harding  had 
come  into  sight  round  the  corner  of  the  church. 

"Ah,  Mr.  Mailing,"  he  said,  "  so  you  have 
stayed.  Very  good  of  you.  Sophia,  let  me  in- 
troduce Mr.  Mailing  to  you  —  my  wife,  Lady 
Sophia." 

The  lady  with  the  white  lock  held  out  her  hand. 
30 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

"  You  have  heard  Professor  Stepton  speak  of 
Mr.  Mailing,  haven't  you?  "  added  the  rector  to 
his  wife. 

"  Indeed  I  have,"  she  answered. 

She  smiled  again  kindly,  and  as  if  resolved  to 
throw  off  her  depression  began  to  talk  with  some 
animation  as  they  all  walked  together  toward  the 
street.  Directly  they  reached  it  the  rector  said: 

"  Are  you  engaged  to  lunch  to-day,  Mr.  Mai- 
ling?" 

"  No,"  answered  Mailing. 

Lady  Sophia  turned  to  him  and  said: 

"  Then  I  shall  be  informal  and  beg  you  to  lunch 
with  us,  if  you  don't  mind  our  being  alone.  We 
lunch  early,  at  one,  .as  my  husband  is  tired  after 
his  morning's  work  and  eats  virtually  nothing  at 
breakfast." 

"  I  shall  be  delighted,"  said  Mailing.  "  It 's 
very  kind  of  you." 

"  We  always  walk  home,"  said  the  rector. 

He  sighed.  It  was  obvious  that  he  was  in  low 
spirits  after  the  failure  of  the  morning,  but  he 
tried  to  conceal  the  fact,  and  his  wife  tactfully 
helped  him.  Mailing  praised  the  music  warmly, 
and  remarked  on  the  huge  congregation. 

"  I  scarcely  thought  I  should  find  a  seat,"  he 
added. 


THE  DWELLER 

"  It  is  always  full  to  the  doors  in  the  morning," 
said  Lady  Sophia,  with  a  cheerfulness  that  was 
slightly  forced. 

She  glanced  at  her  husband,  and  suddenly 
added,  not  without  a  decided  touch  of  feminine 

spite : 

"Unless    Mr.    Chichester,    the    senior    curate, 

is  preaching." 

"  My  dear  Sophy !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Harding. 

"  Well,  it  is  so!  "  she  said,  with  a  sort  of  petu- 
lance. 

"  Perhaps  Mr.  Chichester  is  not  gifted  as  a 
preacher,"  said  Mailing. 

"  Oh,  I  would  n't  say  that,"  said  the  rector. 

"  My  husband  never  criticizes  his  —  swans," 
said  Lady ,  Sophia,  with  delicate  malice,  and  a 
glance  full  of  meaning  at  Mailing.  "  But  I  'm  a 
woman,  and  my  principles  are  not  so  high  as  his." 

"  You  do  yourself  an  injustice,"  said  the  rector. 
"  Here  we  are." 

He  drew  out  his  latch-key. 

Before  lunch  Mailing  was  left  alone  for  a  few 
minutes  in  the  drawing-room  with  Lady  Sophia. 
The  rector  had  to  see  a  parishioner  who  had  called 
and  was  waiting  for  him  in  his  study.  Directly 
her  husband  had  left  the  room  Lady  Sophia  turned 
to  Mailing  and  said: 

32 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

"  Had  you  ever  heard  my  husband  preach  till 
this  morning?  " 

"  No,  never,"  Mailing  answered.  "  I  'm  afraid 
I  'm  not  a  very  regular  church-goer.  I  must  con- 
gratulate you  again  on  the  music  at  St.  Joseph's. 
It  is  exceptional.  Even  at  St.  Anne's  Soho  — " 

Almost  brusquely  she  interrupted  him.  She 
was  obviously  in  a  highly  nervous  condition;  and 
scarcely  able  to  control  herself. 

"  Yes,  yes,  our  music  is  always  good,  of  course. 
So  glad  you  liked  it.  But  what  I  want  to  say  is 
that  you  have  n't  heard  my  husband  preach  this 
morning." 

Mailing  looked  at  her  with  curiosity,  but  with- 
out astonishment.  He  might  have  acted  a  part 
with  her  as  he  had  the  previous  day  with  her  hus- 
band. But,  as  he  looked,  he  came  to  a  rapid  de- 
cision, to  be  more  frank  with  the  woman  than  he 
had  been  with  the  man. 

"  You  mean,  of  course,  that  your  husband  was 
not  in  his  best  vein,"  he  said.  "  I  won't  pretend 
that  I  did  n't  realize  that." 

**  You  did  n't  hear  him  at  all.  He  was  n't  him- 
self —  simply." 

She  sat  down  on  a  sofa  and  clasped  her  hands 
together. 

"  I  cannot  tell  you  what  I  was  feeling,"  she 
3  33 


THE  DWELLER 

added.  "  And  he  used  to  be  so  full  of  self-con- 
fidence. It  was  his  great  gift.  His  self-confi- 
dence carried  him  through  everything.  Nothing 
could  have  kept  him  back  if  — " 

Suddenly  she  checked  herself  and  looked,  with 
a  sort  of  covert  inquiry,  at  Mailing. 

"  You  must  think  me  quite  mad  to  talk  like 
this,"  she  said,  with  a  return  to  her  manner  when 
he  first  met  her. 

"Shall  I  tell  you  what  I  really  think?"  he 
asked,  leaning  forward  in  the  chair  he  had  taken. 

"Yes,  do,  do!" 

"  I  think  you  are  very  ambitious  for  your  hus- 
band and  that  your  ambition  for  him  has  received 
a  perhaps  mysterious  —  check." 

Before  she  could  reply  the  door  opened  and 
Mr.  Harding  reappeared. 

At  lunch  he  carefully  avoided  any  reference  to 
church  matters,  and  they  talked  on  general  sub- 
jects. Lady  Sophia  showed  herself  a  nervously 
intelligent  and  ardent  woman.  It  seemed  to  Mai- 
ling obvious  that  she  was  devoted  to  her  husband, 
"  wrapped  up  in  "  him  —  to  use  an  expressive 
phrase.  Any  failure  on  his  part  upset  her  even 
more  than  it  did  him.  Secretly  she  must  still  be 
quivering  from  the  public  distresses  of  the  morn- 
ing. But  she  now  strove  to  aid  the  rector's  ad- 

34 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

mirable  effort  to  be  serene,  and  proved  herself  a 
clever  talker,  and  well  informed  on  the  events  of 
the  day.  Of  her  Mailing  got  a  fairly  clear  im- 
pression. 

But  his  impression  of  her  husband  was  confused 
and  almost  nebulous. 

"  Do  you  smoke?  "  asked  Mr.  Harding,  when 
lunch  was  over. 

Mailing  said  that  he  did. 
'  Then  come  and  have  a  cigar  in  my  study." 

"  Yes,  do  go,"  said  Lady  Sophia.  "  A  quiet 
talk  with  you  will  rest  my  husband." 

And  she  went  away,  leaving  the  two  men  to- 
gether. 

Mr.  Harding's  study  looked  out  at  the  back  of 
the  house  upon  a  tiny  strip  of  garden.  It  was 
very  comfortably,  though  not  luxuriously,  fur- 
nished, and  the  walls  were  lined  with  bookcases. 
While  his  host  went  to  a  drawer  to  get  the  cigar- 
box,  Mailing  idly  cast  his  eyes  over  the  books  in 
the  shelves  nearest  to  him.  He  always  liked  to 
see  what  a  man  had  to  read.  The  first  book  his 
eyes  rested  upon  was  Myers's  "  Human  Person- 
ality." Then  came  a  series  of  works  by  Hudson, 
including  "  Psychic  Phenomena,"  then  Oliver 
Lodge's  "  Survival  of  Man,"  "  Man  and  the  Uni- 
verse," and  "  Life  and  Matter."  Farther  along 

35 


THE  DWELLER 

were  works  by  Lowes  Dickinson  and  Professor 
William  James,  Bowden's  "The  Imitation  of 
Buddha  "  and  Inge's  "  Christian  Mysticism."  At 
the  end  of  the  shelf,  bound  in  white  vellum,  was 
Don  Lorenzo  Scupoli's  "  The  Spiritual  Combat." 

A  drawer  shut,  and  Mailing  turned  about  to 
take  the  cigar  which  Mr.  Harding  offered  him. 

"  The  light  is  rather  strong,  don't  you  think?  " 
Mr.  Harding  said,  when  the  two  men  had  lit  up. 
"  I  '11  lower  the  blind." 

He  did  so,  and  they  sat  down  in  a  sort  of  agree- 
able twilight,  aware  of  the  blaze  of  an  almost  un- 
English  sun  without. 

Mailing  settled  down  to  his  cigar  with  a  very 
definite  intention  to  clear  up  his  impressions  of 
the  rector.  The  essence  of  the  man  baffled  him. 
He  had  known  more  about  Lady  Sophia  in  five 
minutes  than  he  knew  about  Mr.  Harding  now, 
although  he  had  talked  with  him,  walked  with  him, 
heard  him  preach,  and  watched  him  intently  while 
he  was  doing  so.  His  confusion  and  distress  of 
the  morning  were  comprehended  by  Mailing. 
They  were  undoubtedly  caused  by  the  preacher's 
painful  consciousness  of  the  presence  and  criticism 
of  one  whom,  apparently,  he  feared,  or  of  whose 
adverse  opinion  at  any  rate  he  was  in  peculiar 
dread.  But  what  was  the  character  of  the  man 

36 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

himself?  Was  he  saint  or  sinner,  or  just  ordi- 
nary, normal  man,  with  a  usual  allowance  of  faults 
and  virtues  ?  Was  he  a  man  of  real  force,  or  was 
he  painted  lath?  The  Chichester  episodes  seemed 
to  point  to  the  latter  conclusion.  But  Mailing  was 
too  intelligent  to  take  everything  at  its  surface 
value.  He  knew  much  of  the  trickery  of  man," 
but  that  knowledge  did  not  blind  him  to  the 
mystery  of  man.  He  had  exposed  charlatans. 
Yet  he  had  often  said  to  himself,  "  Who  can  ever 
really  expose  another?  Who  can  ever  really  ex- 
pose himself?"  Essentially  he  was  the  Seeker. 
And  he  was  seldom  or  never  dogmatic.  A  friend 
of  his,  who  professed  to  believe  in  transmigration, 
had  once  said  of  him,  "  I  'm  quite  certain  Mailing 
must  have  been  a  sleuth-hound  once."  Now  he 
wished  to  get  on  a  trail. 

But  Mr.  Harding,  who  on  the  previous  day  had 
been  almost  strangely  frank  about  Henry  Chi- 
chester, to-day  had  apparently  no  intention  to  be 
frank  about  himself.  Though  he  had  desired 
Mailing's  company,  now  that  they  were  together 
alone  he  showed  a  reserve  through  which,  Mailing 
believed,  he  secretly  wanted  to  break.  But  some- 
thing held  him  back.  He  talked  of  politics,  gov- 
ernment and  church,  the  spread  of  science,  the 
follies  of  the  day.  And  Mailing  got  little  nearer 

37 


THE  DWELLER 

to  him.  But  presently  Mailing  happened  to  men- 
tion the  modern  craze  for  discussing  intimately,  or, 
as  a  Frenchwoman  whom  he  knew  expressed  it, 
"  avec  un  luxe  de  detail"  matters  of  health. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  responded  Mr.  Harding.  "  It  is 
becoming  almost  objectionable,  almost  indecent. 
At  the  same  time  the  health  of  the  body  is  a  very 
interesting  subject  because  of  its  effect  upon  the 
mind,  even,  so  it  seems  sometimes,  upon  the  very 
nature  of  a  man.  Now  I  — "  he  struck  the  ash 
off  the  end  of  his  cigar  —  "  was,  I  might  almost 
say,  the  victim  of  my  stomach  in  the  pulpit  this 
morning." 

"You  were  feeling  ill?" 

"  Not  exactly  ill.  I  have  a  strong  constitution] 
But  I  suffer  at  times  from  what  the  doctors  call 
nervous  dyspepsia.  It  is  a  very  tiresome  com- 
plaint, because  it  takes  away  for  the  time  a  man's 
confidence  in  himself,  reduces  him  to  the  worm- 
level  almost;  and  it  gives  him  absurd  ideas.  Now 
this  morning  in  the  pulpit  I  had  an  attack  of  pain 
and  uneasiness,  and  my  nerve  quite  gave  out. 
You  must  have  noticed  it." 

"  I  saw  that  you  were  troubled  by  something." 

"  Something !  It  was  that.  My  poor  wife  was 
thoroughly  upset  by  it.  You  know  how  sensitive 
women-  are.  To  hold  a  crowd  of  people  a. man 

38 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

must  be  strong  and  well,  in  full  possession  of  his 
powers.  And  I  had  a  good  subject." 

"  Splendid." 

"  I  '11  treat  it  again  —  treat  it  again." 

The  rector  shifted  in  his  chair. 

"  Do  you  think,"  he  said  after  a  pause,  "  that 
it  is  possible  for  another,  an  outsider,  to  know  a 
man  better  than  he  knows  himself?  " 

"  In  some  cases,  yes,"  answered  Mailing. 

"But  — as  a  rule?" 

"  There  is  the  saying  that  outsiders  see  most  of 
the  game." 

"  Then  why  should  we  mind  when  all  are  sub- 
ject to  criticism !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Harding,  forci- 
bly. 

Evidently  he  was  startled  by  his  own  outburst, 
for  instantly  he  set  about  to  attenuate  it. 

"  What  I  mean  is  that  men  ought  not  to  care 
so  much  as  most  of  them  undoubtedly  do  what 
others  think  about  them." 

"  It  certainly  is  a  sign  of  great  weakness  to 
care  too  much,"  said  Mailing.  "But  some  people 
have  a  quite  peculiar  power  of  impressing  their 
critical  thoughts  on  others.  These  spread  uneasi- 
ness around  them  like  an  atmosphere." 

"  I  know,  I  know,"  said  the  rector,  with  an  al- 
most hungry  eagerness.  "  Now  surely  one  ought 

39 


THE  DWELLER 

to  keep  out  of  such  an  atmosphere,  to  get  out  of 
it,  and  to  keep  out  of  it." 

"Why  not?" 

"  But  —  but  —  how  extraordinary  it  is,  the  diffi- 
culty men  have  in  getting  away  from  things! 
Have  n't  you  noticed  that?  " 

"  Want  of  moral  strength,"  said  Mailing,  lacon- 
ically. 

"You  think  so?" 

"Don't  you?" 

At  this  moment  there  was  a  knock  at  the  door. 
Mr.  Harding  started. 

"  How  impossible  it  is  to  get  a  quiet  moment," 
he  said  with  acute  irritation.  "  Come  in  I  "  he 
called  out. 

The  footman  appeared. 

"  Mr.  Chichester  has  called  to  see  you,  sir." 

The  rector's  manner  changed.  He  beckoned 
to  the  man  to  come  into  the  room  and  to  shut 
the  door.  The  footman,  looking  surprised, 
obeyed. 

"  Where  is  he,  Thomas?  "  asked  Mr.  Harding, 
in  a  lowered  voice.  "  In  the  hall?  " 

"  No,  sir.  As  you  were  engaged  I  showed  him 
up  into  the  drawing-room." 

"  Oh,  very  well.     Thank  you.     You  can  go." 

The  footman  went  out,  still  looking  surprised. 
40 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

Just  as  he  was  about  to  close  the  door  his  master 
said: 

"Wait  a  moment!  " 

"Sir?" 

"  Was  her  ladyship  in  the  drawing-room  ?  " 

"  No,  sir.  Her  ladyship  is  lying  down  in  the 
boudoir." 

"  Ah.     That  will  do." 

The  footman  shut  the  door. 

Directly  he  was  gone  the  rector  got  up  with  an 
air  of  decision. 

"  Mr.  Mailing,"  he  said,  "  perhaps  I  ought  to 
apologize  to  you  for  treating  you  with  the  abrupt- 
ness allowable  in  a  friend,  but  surprising  in  an  ac- 
quaintance, indeed  in  one  who  is  almost  a  stranger. 
I  do  apologize.  My  only  excuse  is  that  I  know 
you  to  be  a  man  of  exceptional  trend  of  mind  and 
unusual  ability.  I  know  this  from  Professor  Step- 
ton.  But  there  's  another  thing.  As  I  told  you 
yesterday,  you  are  the  only  person  of  my  acquaint- 
ance who,  having  been  fairly  intimate  with  Henry 
Chichester,  has  not  seen  anything  of  him  during 
the  two  years  he  has  been  with  me  as  my  coad- 
jutor. Now  what  I  want  you  to  do  is  this: 
will  you  go  upstairs  and  spend  a  few  minutes  alone 
with  Chichester?  Tell  him  I  am  detained,  but  am 
coming  in  a  moment.  I  '11  see  to  it  that  you  are 

41 


THE  DWELLER 

not  interrupted.  I  '11  explain  to  my  wife.  And, 
of  course,  I  rely  on  you  to  make  the  matter  appear 
natural  to  Chichester,  not  to  rouse  his  —  but  I  am 
sure  you  understand.  Will  you  do  this  for  me  ?  " 

"  Certainly,"  said  Mailing,  with  his  most  pro- 
saic manner.  "Why  not?" 

"Why  not?  Exactly.  There's  nothing  ob- 
jectionable in  the  matter.  But  — "  Mr.  Har- 
ding's  manner  became  very  earnest,  almost  tragic. 
"  I  '11  ask  you  one  thing  —  afterward  you  will  tell 
me  the  truth,  exactly  how  Chichester  impresses  you 
now  in  comparison  with  the  impression  you  got  of 
him  two  years  ago.  You  —  you  have  no  objec- 
tion to  promising  to  tell  me?  " 

Mailing  hesitated. 

"But  is  it  quite  fair  to  Chichester?"  he  said. 
"  Suppose  I  obtained,  for  instance,  a  less  favora- 
ble, or  even  an  unfavorable  impression  of  him 
now?  You  are  his  rector.  I  hardly  think — " 

The  rector  interrupted  him. 

"  I  '11  leave  it  to  you,"  he  said.  "  Do  just  as 
you  please.  But,  believe  me,  I  have  a  very  strong 
reason  for  wishing  to  know  your  opinion.  I  need 
it.  I  need  it." 

There  was  a  lamentable  sound  in  his  voice. 

"  If  I  feel  it  is  right  I  will  give  it  to  you,"  said 
Mailing. 

42 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

The  rector  opened  the  door  of  the  study. 
"  You  know  your  way?  " 
"  Yes." 

Mailing    went    upstairs.     Mr.    Harding    stood 
watching  him  from  below  till  he  disappeared. 


43 


Ill 


WHEN    Mailing   opened   the   door  of   the 
drawing-room  Chichester  was  standing  by 
one   of  the   windows,   looking   out   into   Onslow 
Gardens.     He  turned  round,  saw   Mailing,   and 
uttered  an  exclamation. 

"You  are  here  I" 

His  light  tenor  voice  sounded  almost  denuncia- 
tory, as  if  he  had  a  right  to  demand  an  explana- 
tion of  Mailing's  presence  in  Mr.  Harding's 
house,  and  as  he  came  away  quickly  from  the  win- 
dow, he  repeated,  with  still  more  emphasis : 

"You  are  here!" 

"  Lunching  —  yes,"  replied  Mailing,  imper- 
turbably. 

He  looked  at  Chichester  and  smiled. 
'  You  have  no  objection,  I  hope?  " 

His  words  and  manner  evidently  brought  the 
curate  to  a  sense  of  his  own  unconventionality. 
He  held  out  his  hand. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.     Your  coming  in   sur- 
prised me.     I  had  no  idea  " —  his  blue  eyes  went 

44 


THE  DWELLER 

scarchingly  over  Mailing's  calm  face  — "  that  you 
could  be  here.  I  thought  you  and  the  rector  were 
complete  strangers  till  I  introduced  you  yester- 
day." 

"  So  we  were." 

Mailing  sat  down  comfortably  on  a  sofa.  His 
action  evidently  recalled  Chichester's  mind  to  the 
fact  that  he  was  to  see  the  rector. 

"  Is  n't  the  rector  coming  to  see  me?  "  he  asked. 

"  Almost  directly.  He  's  busy  for  a  few  min- 
utes. We  were  smoking  together  in  his  study." 

'  You  seem  to  —  you  seem  to  have  made  great 
friends !  "  said  Chichester,  with  a  sort  of  forced 
jocularity. 

"  Great  friends  1  They  're  hardly  made  in  a 
moment.  I  happened  to  be  at  church  this  morn- 
ing—" 

"At  church  —  where?"  exclaimed  the  curate. 

"  At  St.  Joseph's.  And  Mr.  Harding  kindly 
asked  me  to  lunch." 

"  You  were  at  church  at  St.  Joseph's  this  morn- 
ing? "  said  Chichester. 

He  sat  down  by  Mailing  and  stared  into  his 
face. 

"  Did  you  —  did  you  stay  for  the  sermon?  " 

"  Certainly.  I  came  for  the  sermon.  I  had 
never  heard  Mr.  Harding  preach." 

45 


THE  DWELLER 

"  No?  No?  Well,  what  did  you  think  of  it? 
What  did  you  think  of  it?  " 

The  curate  spoke  nervously,  and  seemed  to  Mai- 
ling to  be  regarding  him  with  furtive  anxiety. 

"  It  was  obvious  that  Mr.  Harding  was  n't  in 
good  form  this  morning,"  Mailing  said.  "  He 
explained  the  matter  after  lunch." 

"  He  explained  the  matter  1  "  said  Chichester, 
with  a  rising  voice,  in  which  there  was  an  almost 
shrill  note  of  suspicion. 

"  Yes.  He  told  me  he  was  often  the  victim 
of  nervous  dyspepsia,  and  that  he  had  an  attack 
of  it  while  in  the  pulpit  this  morning." 

"  He  told  you  it  was  nervous  dyspepsia  I  " 

"  I  have  just  said  so." 

The  curate  looked  down. 

"  I  advised  him  not  to  walk  all  the  way  home 
yesterday,"  he  said  gloomily.  "  You  heard  me." 

"You  think  it  was  that?" 

"  He  never  will  take  advice  from  any  one. 
That 's  his  —  one  of  his  great  faults.  Whatever 
he  thinks,  whatever  he  says,  must  be  right.  You, 
as  a  layman,  probably  have  no  idea  how  a  certain 
type  of  clergyman  loves  authority." 

This  remark  struck  Mailing  as  in  such  singu- 
larly bad  taste  —  considering  where  they  were, 
and  that  one  of  them  was  Mr.  Harding's  guest, 

46 


the  other  his  curate  —  that  only  his  secret  desire 
to  make  obscure  things  clear  prevented  him  from 
resenting  it. 

"  It  is  one  of  the  curses  of  the  Church,"  con- 
tinued Chichester,  "  this  passion  for  authority,  for 
ruling,  for  having  all  men  under  one's  feet  as  it 
were.  If  men  would  only  listen,  take  advice,  see 
themselves  as  they  really  are,  how  much  finer,  how 
much  greater,  they  might  become  I  " 

"See  themselves  as  others  see  them!  Eh?" 
said  Mailing.  "  But  do  you  mean  that  a  rector 
should  depend  on  his  curate's  advice  rather  than 
on  his  own  judgment?  " 

"And  why  not?"  said  Chichester.  "Rector 
—  curate  —  archbishop  —  what  does  it  matter? 
The  point  is  not  what  rank  in  the  hierarchy  a  man 
has,  but  what,  and  how,  does  he  see?  A  street 
boy  may  perceive  a  truth  that  a  king  is  blind  to. 
At  that  moment  the  street  boy  is  greater  than  the 
king.  Do  you  deny  it?  " 

"  No,"  said  Mailing,  amazed  at  the  curate's 
excitement,  but  showing  no  astonishment. 

"  But  it 's  a  terrible  thing  to  see  too  clearly!  " 
continued  Chichester,  almost  as  if  talking  to  him- 
self, absorbed.  "  A  terrible  thing!  " 

He  looked  up  at  Mailing,  and  almost  solemnly 
he  said: 

47 


THE  DWELLER 

"  Are  you  still  going  on  with  all  those  inves- 
tigations? " 

"  When  I  have  any  spare  time,  I  often  spend 
some  of  it  in  that  sort  of  work,"  answered  Mai- 
ling, lightly. 

It  was  his  way  to  make  light  of  his  research 
work,  and  indeed  he  seldom  mentioned  it  unless 
he  was  forced  to  do  so. 

"Do  you  think  it  is  right?"  said  Chichester, 
earnestly. 

"Right?" 

"  To  strive  to  push  one's  way  into  hidden  re- 
gions." 

"  If  I  did  n't  think  it  right  I  should  n't  do  it," 
retorted  Mailing,  but  without  heat. 

"And  —  for  clergymen?"  questioned  Chiches- 
ter, leaning  forward,  and  dropping  his  small,  thin 
hands  down  between  his  knees. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Do  you  think  it  right  for  clergymen  to  in- 
dulge themselves  —  for  it  is  indulgence  —  in  in- 
vestigations, in  attempts  to  find  out  more  than  God 
has  chosen  to  reveal  to  us  ?  " 

The  man  of  science  in  Mailing  felt  impatient 
with  the  man  of  faith  in  Chichester. 

"  Does  it  never  occur  to  you  that  the  anima 
mundi  may  have  hidden  certain  things  from  the 

48 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

minds  of  mortals  just  in  order  to  provide  them 
with  a  field  to  till?  "  he  said,  with  a  hint  of  sar- 
casm. "  Was  n't  the  fact  that  the  earth  revolves 
round  the  sun,  instead  of  the  sun  round  the  earth, 
hidden  from  every  living  creature  till  Galileo  dis- 
covered it?  Do  you  think  Galileo  deserved  our 
censure?  " 

"  Saul  was  punished  for  consulting  the  witch  of 
Endor,"  returned  Chichester.  "  And  the  Roman 
Catholic  Church  forbids  her  children  to  deal  in 
occult  things." 

1  You  can't  expect  a  man  like  me,  a  disciple  of 
Stepton,  to  take  the  Roman  Catholic  view  of  such 
a  matter." 

"  You  are  not  a  clergyman,"  said  Chichester. 

Mailing  could  not  help  smiling. 
'  You  think  the  profession  carries  with  it  cer- 
tain obligations,"  he  said.  "  No  doubt  it  does. 
But  I  shall  never  believe  that  one  of  them  is  to 
shut  your  eyes  to  any  fact  in  the  whole  scheme  of 
Creation.  Harm  can  never  come  from  truth." 

"  If  I  could  believe  that!  "  Chichester  cried  out. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  you  don't  believe 
it?" 

Chichester  looked  at  Mailing  for  quite  a  min- 
ute without  replying.     Then  he  got  up,  and  said, 
with  a  changed  voice  and  manner : 
4  49 


THE  DWELLER 

44  If  the  rector  does  n't  come  to  see  me  I  shall 
have  to  go.  Sunday  is  not  a  holiday,  you  know, 
for  us  clergymen." 

He  drew  out  his  watch  and  looked  at  it. 

"  I  shall  have  to  go.  I  'm  taking  the  Chil- 
dren's Service." 

Mailing  got  up  too. 

"Is  it  getting  late?"  he  said.     "Perhaps — " 

At  this  moment  the  door  was  gently  opened 
and  Mr.  Harding  appeared. 

"  Oh,  Chichester,"  he  said.  "  I  'm  sorry  to 
have  kept  you  waiting.  What  is  it?  Would 
you  like  to  come  to  my  study?  " 

"  I  must  be  off,"  said  Mailing.  "  May  I  say 
good-by  to  Lady  Sophia?  Or  perhaps  she  is 
resting  and  would  rather  not  be  disturbed." 

"  I  'm  sure  she  would  wish  to  say  good-by  to 
you,"  said  the  rector.  "  I  '11  just  ask  her." 

He  shot  a  quick  glance  from  one  man  to  the 
other  and  went  out  of  the  room,  leaving  the  door 
open  behind  him. 

Directly  he  was  gone  the  curate  said:  "  It  has 
been  such  a  pleasure  to  me  to  renew  my  acquaint- 
ance with  you,  Mr.  Mailing.  Are  you  going  to 
be  long  in  London?  " 

"  All  the  season,  I  think." 

50 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

"  Then  I  hope  we  may  meet  again  soon,  very 
soon." 

He  hesitated,  put  one  hand  in  his  pocket,  and 
brought  out  a  card-case. 

"  I  should  like  to  give  you  my  address." 

"  And  let  me  give  you  mine." 

They  exchanged  cards. 

"  I  expect  you  '11  be  very  busy,"  said  the  curate, 
rather  doubtfully. 

Then  he  added,  like  a  man  urged  on  by  some 
strong,  almost  overpowering  desire  to  do  a  thing 
not  quite  natural  to  him: 

"  But  I  wish  you  could  spare  an  evening  to  come 
to  dine  with  me.  I  live  very  modestly,  of  course. 
I  'm  in  rooms,  in  Hornton  Street  —  do  you  know 
it  ?  —  near  Campden  Hill  ?  —  Number  43  — 
as  you  '11  see  on  my  card.  I  wonder — " 

"  I  shall  be  delighted  to  come." 

"When?" 

"  Whenever  you  are  kind  enough  to  ask  me." 

"  Could  you  come  on  Wednesday  week?  It 's 
so  unfortunate,  I  have  such  a  quantity  of  parish 
engagements  —  that  is  my  first  evening  free." 

"  Wednesday  week,  with  pleasure." 

"At  half  after  seven?" 

"  That  will  suit  me  perfectly." 


THE  DWELLER 

"  And  " —  he  looked  toward  the  door  — "  I 
shall  be  greatly  obliged  to  you  if  you  won't  men- 
tion to  the  rector  the  fact  that  you  are  coming. 
He—" 

"  My  wife  's  in  the  boudoir,"  said  Mr.  Har- 
ding, coming  into  the  room  at  this  moment. 

He  stood  by  the  door. 

Mailing  shook  hands  with  Chichester,  and  went 
to  say  good-by  to  his  hostess. 

Mr.  Harding  shut  the  drawing-room  door. 

"  This  is  the  way,"  he  said.  "  Well,  Mr.  Mai- 
ling? Well?" 

4  You  mean  you  want  to  know  — ?  " 

'  Your  impression  of  Chichester." 

The  rector  stopped  on  the  landing. 

"  Do  you  find  him  much  changed?  " 

Mailing  shrugged  Ihis  shoulders. 

"  Possibly  —  a  little.  He  may  have  become 
rather  firmer  in  manner,  a  trifle  more  decisive." 

"  Firmer !     More  decisive,  you  say !  " 

"  But  surely  that  is  only  natural,  working  —  as 
he  has  done,  I  understand,  under  a  man  such  as 
yourself  for  two  years." 

"  Such  as  myself!  Then  you  think  he  's  caught 
something  of  my  manner  and  way  of  looking  at 
things?  You  think — " 

"  Really,  it 's  difficult  to  say,"  interrupted  Mal- 
52 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

ling.     "  He  's  developed,  no  doubt.     But  very  few 
people  don't.     I  suppose  you  Ve  trained  him." 

"II"  said  the  rector.  "  I  train  a  man  like  Chi- 
chester!  " 

In  his  voice  there  was  a  bitter  irony. 

"  Is  that  you,  Mr.  Mailing?  "  said  the  voice  of 
Lady  Sophia.  "  I  was  lying  down  with  a  book. 
This  is  my  little  room." 

She  looked  pale,  almost  haggard,  as  the  sun- 
shine fell  upon  her  through  the  open  window. 

Mailing  took  his  leave  at  once  and  she  did  not 
attempt  to  detain  him. 

"  I  hope  you  '11  come  again,"  she  said,  as  they 
shook  hands.  "  Perhaps  on  another  Sunday  morn- 
ing, to  church  and  lunch.  I  '11  let  you  know." 

She  said  the  last  words  with  a  significance  which 
made  Mailing  understand  that  she  did  not  wish 
him  to  come  to  church  at  St.  Joseph's  again  till  she 
gave  him  the  word. 

The  rector  let  him  out  of  the  house.  Not  an- 
other word  was  spoken  about  Henry  Chichester. 
As  his  guest  walked  away  the  rector  stood,  bare- 
headed, looking  after  him,  then,  as  Mailing  turned 
the  corner  of  the  gardens,  with  a  heavy  sigh,  and 
the  unconscious  gesture  of  a  man  greatly  troubled 
in  mind,  he  stepped  back  into  his  hall  and  shut  the 
door  behind  him. 

53 


IV 


A  WEEK  later,  Mailing  paid  a  visit  to  Pro- 
fessor Stepton.  He  had  heard  nothing  of 
the  Hardings  and  Chichester  since  the  day  of  the 
luncheon  in  Onslow  Gardens,  but  they  had  seldom 
been  absent  from  his  thoughts,  and  more  than 
once  he  had  looked  at  the  words,  "  Dine  with 
H.  C."  in  his  book  of  engagements,  and  had 
found  himself  wishing  that  "  Hornton  Street, 
Wednesday  "  was  not  so  far  distant. 

The  professor  lived  in  Westminster,  in  a  house 
with  Adam  ceilings,  not  far  from  the  Houses  of 
Parliament.  He  was  unmarried,  and  Mailing 
found  him  alone  after  dinner,  writing  busily  in  his 
crowded  library.  He  had  but  recently  returned 
from  Paris,  whither  he  had  traveled  to  take  part 
in  a  series  of  "  sittings  "  with  the  famous  medium, 
Mrs.  Groeber. 

In  person  the  professor  was  odd,  without  being 
specially  striking.  He  was  of  medium  height, 
thin  and  sallow,  with  gray  whiskers,  thick  gray 
hair,  bushy  eyebrows,  and  small,  pointed  and  in- 
quiring features  which  gave  him  rather  the  as- 

54 


THE  DWELLER 

pect  of  a  prying  bird.  His  eyes  were  little  and 
sparkling.  His  mouth,  strangely  enough,  was 
ecclesiastical.  He  nearly  always  wore  very  light- 
colored  clothes.  Even  in  winter  he  was  often  to 
be  seen  clad  in  yellow-gray  tweeds,  a  yellow  silk 
necktie,  and  a  fawn-colored  Homburg  hat.  And 
no  human  being  had  ever  encountered  him  in  a 
pair  of  boots  unprotected  by  spats.  One  peculiar- 
ity of  his  was  that  he  did  not  possess  a  walking- 
stick,  another  that  he  had  never  —  so  at  least  he 
declared  —  owned  a  pocket-handkerchief,  having 
had  no  occasion  to  use  one  at  any  moment  of  his 
long  and  varied  life.  When  it  rained  he  some- 
times carried  an  umbrella,  generally  shut.  At 
other  times  he  moved  briskly  along  with  his  arms 
swinging  at  his  sides. 

As  Mailing  came  in  he  looked  up  and  nodded. 

"  Putting  down  all  about  Mrs.  Groeber,"  he 
observed. 

"Anything  new  or  interesting?"  asked  Mai- 
ling. 

"  Just  the  usual  manifestations,  done  in  full 
light,  though." 

He  laid  aside  his  pen,  while  Mailing  sat  down. 

"  A  letter  from  Flammarion  this  morning,"  he 
said.  "  But  all  about  Halley's  comet,  of  course. 
What  is  it?" 

S3 


THE  DWELLER 

Now  the  professor's  "What  is  it?"  was  not 
general,  but  particular,  and  was  at  once  under- 
stood to  be  so  by  Mailing.  It  did  not  mean 
"  Why  have  you  come?  "  but  "  Why  are  you  ob- 
sessed at  this  moment,  and  by  what?  " 

"  Let 's  have  the  mystery,"  he  added,  leaning 
his  elbows  on  his  just  dried  manuscript,  and  rest- 
ing his  sharp  little  chin  on  his  doubled  fists. 

Yet  Mailing  had  hinted  at  no  mystery,  and  had 
come  without  saying  he  was  coming. 

"  You  know  a  clergyman  called  Marcus  Har- 
ding? "  said  Mailing. 

"  Of  St.  Joseph's.     To  be  sure,  I  do." 

"  Do  you  know  also  his  senior  curate,  Henry 
Chichester?" 

"  No." 

"  Have  you  heard  of  him?  " 

"  Oh  dear,  yes.  And  I  fancy  I  Ve  seen  him  at 
a  distance." 

'  You  heard  of  him  from  Harding,  I  sup- 
pose." 

"  Exactly,  and  Harding's  wife." 

"Oh,  from  Lady  Sophia!" 

"  Who  hates  him." 

"  Since  when?  "  said  Mailing,  emphatically. 

11 1  could  n't  say.  But  I  was  only  aware  of  the 
fact  about  a  month  ago." 

56 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

"  Have  you  any  reason  to  suppose  that  Har- 
ding has  been  making  any  experiments?  " 

"  In  church  music,  biblical  criticism,  or  what?  " 

"  Say  in  psychical  research?  " 

"  No." 

"  Or  that  Chichester  has?  " 

"  No." 

"  Has  n't  Harding  ever  talked  to  you  on  the 
subject?  " 

"  He  has  tried  to,"  said  the  professor,  rather 
grimly. 

"  And  you  did  n't  encourage  him?  " 

"  When  do  I  encourage  clergymen  to  talk  about 
psychical  research?" 

Mailing  could  not  help  smiling. 

"  I  have  some  reason  —  at  least  I  believe  so 
—  to  suppose  that  Harding  and  his  curate  Chi- 
chester have  been  making  some  experiments  in  di- 
rections not  entirely  unknown  to  us,"  he  observed. 
"  And  what  is  more  " —  he  paused  — "  what  is 
more,"  he  continued,  "  I  am  inclined  to  think  that 
those  experiments  may  have  been  crowned  with 
a  success  they  little  understand." 

Down  went  the  professor's  fists,  his  head  was 
poked  forward  in  Mailing's  direction,  and  his 
small  eyes  glittered  almost  like  those  of  a  glutton 
who  sees  a  feast  spread  before  him. 

57 


THE  DWELLER 

"  The  experiments  of  two  clergymen  in  psychi- 
cal research  crowned  with  success !  "  he  barked  out. 
"  If  so,  I  shall  see  what  I  can  do  in  the  pulpit  — 
the  Abbey  pulpit!  " 

He  got  up,  and  walking  slightly  sidewise,  with 
his  hands  hanging,  and  his  fingers  opening  and 
shutting,  went  over  to  a  chair  close  to  Mailing's. 

"  Get  on !  "  he  said. 

"  I  'm  going  to.     I  want  your  advice." 

When  Mailing  had  finished  what  he  had  to  say, 
the  professor,  who  had  interrupted  him  two  or 
three  times  to  ask  pertinent  questions,  put  his 
hands  on  his  knees  and  thrust  his  head  forward. 

"  You  said  you  wanted  advice,"  he  said. 
"What  about?" 

"  I  wish  you  to  advise  me  how  I  had  better  pro- 
ceed." 

'You  really  think  the  matter  important?" 
asked  the  professor. 

Mailing  looked  slightly  disconcerted. 

"You  don't?"  he  said. 

*  You  are  deducing  a  great  deal  from  not  very 
much.  That 's  certain,"  observed  the  professor. 

'  You  never  knew  Chichester,"  retorted  Mai- 
ling. "  I  did  —  two  years  ago." 

"  Suppose  you  are  right,  suppose  these  two  rev- 
erend gentlemen  have  done  something  such  as  you 

58 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

suppose  —  and  that  there  has  been  a  result,  a  curi- 
ous result,  what  have  we  to  do  with  it?  Tell  me 
that." 

"  You  mean  that  I  have  no  right  to  endeavor  to 
make  a  secret  investigation  into  the  matter.  But 
I  'm  positive  both  the  men  want  help  from  me. 
I  don't  say  either  of  them  will  ask  it.  But  I  'm 
certain  both  of  them  want  it." 

"  Two  clergymen !  "  said  the  professor.  "  Two 
clergymen  !  That 's  the  best  of  it  —  if  there  is 
an  it,  which  there  may  not  be." 

"  Harding  spoke  very  warmly  of  you." 

"  Good-believing  man !  Now,  I  do  wonder 
what  he  's  been  up  to.  I  do  wonder.  Perhaps 
he  'd  have  told  me  but  for  my  confounded  habit 
of  sarcasm,  my  way  of  repelling  the  amateur  — 
repelling!"  His  arms  flew  out.  "There's  so 
much  silliness  beyond  all  bearing,  credulity  beyond 
all  the  patience  of  science.  Table-turning  women, 
feminine  men !  '  The  spirits  guide  me,  Professor, 
in  every  smallest  action  of  my  life !  ' —  Wuff !  — 
the  charlatan  battens  and  breeds.  And  the  bile 
rises  in  one  till  Carlyle  on  his  worst  day  might 
have  hailed  one  as  a  brother  bilious,  and  so  de- 
nunciatory —  Jeremiah  nervously  dyspeptic  1  And 
when  you  opened  your  envelop  and  drew  out  a 
couple  of  clergymen,  really,  really!  But  perhaps 

59 


THE  DWELLER 

I  was  in  a  hurry !  Clergymen  in  a  serious  fix,  too, 
because  of  unexpected  and  not  understood  success  1 
And  I  talk  of  repelling  the  amateur!  " 

Suddenly  he  paused  and,  with  his  bushy  eye- 
brows twitching,  looked  steadily  at  Mailing. 

"  I  leave  it  to  you,"  he  said.  "  Take  your  own 
line.  But  don't  forget  that,  if  there  's  anything 
in  it,  development  will  take  place  in  the  link.  The 
link  will  be  a  center  of  combat.  The  link  will  be 
an  interesting  field  for  study." 

"The  link?"  said  Mailing,  interrogatively. 

"  Goodness  gracious  me !  Her  ladyship !  Her 
ladyship  1  "  cried  out  the  professor.  "  What  are 
you  about,  Mailing?  " 

And  he  refused  to  say  another  word  on  the  mat- 
ter till  Mailing,  after  much  more  conversation  on 
other  topics,  got  up  to  go.  Then,  accompanying 
him  to  the  front  door,  the  professor  said : 

'  You  know  /  think  it 's  probably  all  great  non- 
sense." 

"What?" 

'  Your  two  black-coated  friends.  You  bustle 
along  at  such  a  pace.  Remember,  I  have  made 
more  experiments  than  you  have,  and  I  have  never 
come  upon  an  exactly  similar  case.  I  don't  know 
whether  such  a  thing  can  be.  No  more  do  you  — 
you  've  guessed.  Now,  guessing  is  not  at  all  scien- 

60 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

tific.  At  the  same  time  you  Ve  proved  you  can 
be  patient.  If  there  is  anything  in  this  it 's  pro- 
foundly interesting,  of  course." 

"  Then  you  advise  me  —  ?  " 

"If  in  doubt,  study  Lady  Sophia.  Good 
night." 

As  Mailing  went  away  into  the  darkness  he 
heard  the  professor  snapping  out  to  himself,  as 
he  stood  before  his  house  bareheaded: 

"  Out  of  the  mouths  of  babes  and  sucklings  1 
Tres  bien!  But  —  reverend  gentlemen  of  St. 
Joseph's !  I  shall  have  to  look  for  telergic  power 
in  my  acquaintance  Randall  Cantuar,  when  I  want 
it!  By  Jove!" 

"  If  in  doubt,  study  Lady  Sophia."  As  Mai- 
ling thought  over  these  parting  words,  he  realized 
their  wisdom  and  wondered  at  his  own  short-sight- 
edness. 

He  had  sent  his  cards  to  Onslow  Gardens  after 
the  luncheon  with  the  Hardings.  He  wished  now 
he  had  called  and  asked  for  Lady  Sophia.  But 
doubtless  he  would  have  an  opportunity  of  being 
with  her  again.  If  she  did  not  offer  him  one,  he 
would  make  one  for  himself. 

He  longed  to  see  her  with  Henry  Chichester. 

During  the  days  that  elapsed  before  "  Horn- 
ton  Street,  Wednesday  "  he  considered  a  certain 

61 


THE  DWELLER 

matter  with  sedulous  care.  His  interview  with 
Stepton  had  not  been  fruitless.  Stepton  always 
made  an  effect  on  his  mind.  Casual  and  jerky 
though  his  manner  was,  obstinate  as  were  his 
silences  at  certain  moments,  fragmentary  as  was 
his  speech,  he  had  a  way  of  darting  at  the  essential 
that  set  him  apart  from  most  men.  Mailing  re- 
membered a  horrible  thing  he  had  once  seen  in  the 
Sahara,  a  running  gazelle  killed  by  a  falcon.  The 
falcon,  rising  high  in  the  blue  air,  had  followed 
the  gazelle,  had  circled,  poised,  then  shot  down 
and,  with  miraculous  skill,  struck  into  the  gazelle's 
eye.  Unerringly  from  above  it  had  chosen  out  of 
the  vast  desert  the  home  for  its  cruel  beak.  Some- 
what in  similar  fashion,  so  Mailing  thought,  Step- 
ton  rose  above  things,  circled,  poised,  sank,  and 
struck  into  the  heart  of  the  truth  unerringly. 

Perhaps  he  was  able  to  do  this  because  he  was 
able  to  mount,  falconwise ! 

Mailing  would  have  given  a  good  deal  to  have 
Stepton  with  him  in  this  affair,  despite  the  profes- 
sor's repellent  attitude  toward  the  amateur.  Well, 
if  there  really  was  anything  in  it,  if  strangeness 
rose  out  of  the  orthodox  bosom  of  St.  Joseph's,  if 
he  —  Mailing  —  found  himself  walking  in  thick 
darkness,  he  meant  to  bring  Stepton  into  the  mat- 
ter, whether  at  Stepton's  desire  or  against  it. 

62 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

Meanwhile  he  would  see  if  there  was  enlighten- 
ment in  Hornton  Street. 

On  the  Wednesday  the  spell  of  fine  weather 
which  had  made  London  look  strangely  vivacious 
broke  up,  and  in  the  evening  rain  fell  with  a  gentle 
persistence.  Blank  grayness  took  the  town.  A 
breath  as  of  deep  autumn  was  in  the  air.  And 
the  strange  sadness  of  cities,  which  is  like  no  other 
sadness,  held  the  spirit  of  Evelyn  Mailing  as  he 
walked  under  an  umbrella  in  the  direction  of  Ken- 
sington High  Street.  He  walked,  to  shake  off 
depression.  But  in  his  effort  he  did  not  succeed. 
All  that  he  saw  deepened  his  melancholy;  the  sol- 
diers starting  out  vaguely  from  barracks,  not 
knowing  what  to  do,  but  free  for  a  time,  and 
hoping,  a  little  heavily,  for  some  adventure  to  break 
the  military  monotony  of  their  lives;  the  shop- 
girls, also  in  hope  of  something  to  "  take  them  out 
of  themselves  " —  pathetic  desire  of  escape  from 
the  little  prison,  where  the  soul  sits,  picking  its 
oakum  sometimes,  in  its  cell  of  flesh !  —  young 
men  making  for  the  parks,  workmen  for  the  pub- 
lic houses,  an  old  woman,  in  a  cap,  peering  out  of 
an  upper  window  in  Prince's  Gate;  Italians  with 
an  organ,  and  a  monkey  that  looked  as  if  it  were 
dying  of  nostalgia;  women  hurrying  —  whither? 
—  with  anxious  faces,  and  bodies  whose  very 

63 


THE  DWELLER 

shapes,   and   whose   every  movement,   suggested, 
rather  proclaimed,  worry. 

Mailing  knew  it  was  the  rain,  the  possessive 
grayness,  which  troubled  his  body  to-night,  and 
through  his  body  troubled  his  spirit.  His  nostrils 
inhaled  the  damp,  and  it  seemed  to  go  straight  into 
his  essence,  into  the  mystery  that  was  he.  His 
eyes  saw  no  more  blue,  and  it  was  as  if  they  drew 
a  black  shutter  over  all  the  blue  in  his  heart,  blot- 
ting it  out.  People  became  doomed  phantoms,  be- 
cause the  weather  had  changed  and  because  Lon- 
don knows  how  to  play  Cassandra  to  the  spirit 
of  many  a  man.  To  Mailing,  as  he  presently 
turned  to  the  right,  Hornton  Street  looked  like 
an  alley  leading  straight  to  the  pit  of  despair,  and 
when  he  tapped  on  the  blistered  green  door  of  the 
small  house  where  the  curate  lived,  it  was  as  if  he 
tapped  seeking  admittance  to  all  the  sorrowful 
things  that  had  been  brought  into  being  to  beset 
his  life  with  blackness. 

A  neat  servant-girl  opened  the  door.  There 
was  a  smell  of  roast  mutton  in  the  passage.  So 
far  well.  Mailing  took  off  his  hat  and  coat,  hung 
them  up  on  a  hook  indicated  by  the  plump  red 
hand  of  the  maid,  and  then  followed  her  upstairs. 
The  curate  was  in  possession  of  the  first  floor. 

64 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

Mailing  knew  that  it  would  be  a  case  of  fold- 
ing-doors and  perhaps  of  curtains  of  imitation 
lace.  It  was  a  case  of  folding-doors.  But  there 
was  a  dull  green  hue  on  the  walls  that  surely  be- 
spoke Henry  Chichester's  personal  taste.  There 
were  bookcases,  there  were  mezzotints,  there  were 
engravings  of  well-known  pictures,  and  there  were 
armchairs  not  covered  with  horsehair.  There 
was  also  a  cottage  piano,  severely  nude.  In  the 
center  of  the  room  stood  a  small  square  table  cov- 
ered with  a  cloth  and  laid  for  two  persons. 

"  I  '11  tell  Mr.  Chichester,  sir." 

The  maid  went  out.  From  behind  the  fold- 
ing-doors came  to  Mailing's  ears  the  sound  of 
splashing  water,  then  a  voice  saying,  certainly  to 
the  maid,  "  Thank  you,  Ellen,  I  will  come." 
And  in  three  minutes  Chichester  was  in  the  room, 
apologizing. 

"  I  was  kept  late  in  the  parish.  There  's  a 
good  deal  to  do." 

"  You  're  not  overworked?  "  asked  Mailing. 

"  Do  I  look  so?  "  said  Chichester,  quickly. 

He  turned  round  and  gazed  at  himself  in  an 
oval  Venetian  mirror  which  was  fixed  to  the  wall 
just  behind  him.  His  manner  for  a  moment  was 
oddly  absorbed  as  he  examined  his  face. 

65 


THE  DWELLER 

"  London  life  tells  on  one,  I  suppose,"  he  said, 
again  turning.  "  We  change,  of  course,  in  ap- 
pearance as  we  go  on." 

His  blue  eyes  seemed  to  be  seeking  something 
in  Mailing's  impenetrable  face. 

"Do  you  think,"  he  said,  "  I  am  much  altered 
since  we  used  to  meet  two  years  ago  ?  It  would 
of  course  be  natural  enough  if  I  were." 

Mailing  looked  at  him  for  a  minute  steadily. 

"  In  appearance,  you  mean?  " 

"  Of  course." 

"  To-night  it  seems  to  me  that  you  have  altered 
a  good  deal." 

"To-night?"  said  the  curate,  as  if  with  anx- 
iety. 

"  If  there  is  any  change, —  and  I  think  there  is, 
—  it  seems  to  me  more  apparent  to-night  than  it 
was  when  I  saw  you  the  other  day." 

Ellen,  the  maid,  entered  the  room  bearing  a  tray 
on  which  was  a  soup-tureen. 

"  Oh,  dinner !  "  said  Chichester.  "  Let  us  sit 
down.  You  won't  mind  simple  fare,  I  hope. 
We  are  having  soup,  mutton, —  I  am  not  sure  what 
else." 

"  Stewed  fruit,  sir,"  interpolated  Ellen. 

"To  be  sure!  Stewed  fruit  and  custard. 
Open  the  claret,  Ellen,  please." 

66 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

"  Have  you  been  in  these  rooms  long?  "  asked 
Mailing,  as  they  unfolded  their  napkins. 

"  Two  years.  All  the  time  I  have  been  at  St. 
Joseph's.  The  rector  told  me  of  them.  The 
curate  who  preceded  me  had  occupied  them." 

"  What  became  of  him?  " 

"  He  has  a  living  in  Northampton  now.  But 
when  he  left  he  had  nothing  in  view." 

"  He  was  tired  of  work  at  St.  Joseph's?  " 

"  I  don't  think  he  got  on  with  the  rector." 

The  drip  of  the  rain  became  audible  outside, 
and  a  faint  sound  of  footsteps  on  the  pavement. 

"  Possibly  I  shall  not  stay  much  longer,"  he 
added. 

"  No  doubt  you  '11  take  a  living." 

"  I  don't  know.  I  don't  know.  But,  in  any 
case,  I  may  not  stay  much  longer  —  perhaps. 
That  will  do,  Ellen;  you  may  go  and  fetch  the 
mutton.  Put  the  claret  on  the  table,  please." 

When  the  maid  was  gone,  he  added: 

"  One  does  n't  want  a  servant  in  the  room  lis- 
tening to  all  one  says.  As  she  was  standing  be- 
hind me  I  had  forgotten  she  was  here.  How  it 
rains  to-night !  I  hate  the  sound  of  rain." 

"  It  is  dismal,"  said  Mailing,  thinking  of  his 
depression  while  he  had  walked  to  Hornton 
Street. 


THE  DWELLER 

"  Do  you  mind,"  said  the  curate,  slightly  low- 
ering his  voice,  "  if  I  speak  rather  —  rather  con- 
fidentially to  you?  " 

"  Not  at  all,  if  you  wish  to  — " 

"  Well,  now,  you  are  a  man  of  the  world, 
you  've  seen  many  people.  I  wish  you  would  tell 
me  something." 

"What  is  it?" 

Ellen  appeared  with  the  mutton.  As  soon  as 
she  had  put  it  on  the  table  and  departed,  Chiches- 
ter  continued: 

"How  does  Mr.  Harding  strike  you?  What 
impression  does  he  make  upon  you?" 

Eagerness,  even  more,  something  that  was 
surely  anxiety,  shone  in  his  eyes  as  he  asked  the 
question. 

"  He  's  a  very  agreeable  man." 

"  Of  course,  of  course !  Would  you  say  he  was 
a  man  to  have  much  power  over  others,  his  fellow- 
men?  " 

"  Speaking  quite  confidentially  — " 

"  Nothing  you  say  shall  ever  go  beyond  us 
two." 

"  Then  —  I  don't  know  that  I  should." 

"  He  does  n't  strike  you  as  a  man  of  power?  " 

"In  the  pulpit?" 

"  And  out  of  it  —  especially  out  of  it?  " 
68 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

"  He  may  have  been.  But  —  perhaps  he  has 
lost  in  power.  Dispersion,  you  know,  does  not 
make  for  strength." 

Suddenly  the  curate  became  very  pale. 

"  Dispersion  —  you  say  1  "  he  almost  stam- 
mered. 

As  if  to  cover  some  emotion,  he  looked  at  Mai- 
ling's plate,  and  added: 

"Have  some  more?     You  won't?     Then — " 

He  got  up  and  rang  the  bell.  Ellen  re- 
appeared, cleared  away,  and  put  the  stewed  fruit 
and  custard  on  the  table. 

"  Bring  the  coffee  in  ten  minutes,  Ellen.  I 
won't  ring." 

"  Very  well,  sir." 

"  Dispersion,"  said  Chichester  to  Mailing  in 
a  firmer  voice,  as  Ellen  disappeared. 

"  Concentration  makes  for  strength.  Mr. 
Harding  seems  to  me  mentally  —  what  shall  I 
say? — rather  torn  in  pieces,  as  if  preyed  upon  by 
some  anxiety.  Now,  if  you  '11  allow  me  to  be 
personal,  I  should  say  that  you  have  greatly  gained 
in  strength  and  power  since  I  knew  you  two  years 
ago." 

"You  —  you  observe  a  difference?"  asked 
Chichester,  apparently  in  great  perturbation. 

"  A  striking  difference." 
69 


THE  DWELLER 

"  And  —  and  would  you  say  I  looked  a  hap- 
pier, as  well  as  a  —  a  stronger  man?  " 

"  I  could  n't  with  truth  say  that" 

"  Very  few  of  us  are  happy,"  said  Chichester, 
with  trembling  lips.  "  Poor  miserable  sinners  as 
we  are !  And  we  clergymen,  who  set  up  to  direct 
others  — "  he  broke  off. 

He  seemed  greatly,  strangely,  moved. 

"  You  must  forgive  me.  I  have  had  a  very  hard 
day's  work !  "  he  murmured.  "  The  coffee  will 
do  me  good.  Let  us  sit  in  the  armchairs,  and 
Ellen  can  clear  away.  I  wish  I  had  two  sitting- 
rooms." 

He  rang  to  make  Ellen  hurry.  Till  she  came 
Mailing  talked  about  Italian  pictures  and  looked 
at  the  curate's  books.  When  she  had  cleared 
away,  left  the  coffee,  and  finally  departed,  he  sat 
down  with  an  air  of  satisfaction.  Chichester  did 
not  smoke,  but  begged  Mailing  to  light  up,  and 
gave  him  a  cigar. 

"  Coffee  always  does  one  good,"  he  said.  "  It 
acts  directly  on  the  heart,  and  seems  to  strengthen 
the  whole  body.  I  have  had  a  trying  day." 

"  You  look  tired,"  said  Mailing. 

The  fact  was  that  Chichester  had  never  recov- 
ered the  color  he  had  so  suddenly  lost  when  they 
were  discussing  Mr.  Harding. 

70 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

"  It 's  no  wonder  if  I  do,"  rejoined  Chichester, 
in  a  voice  that  sounded  hopeless. 

He  drank  some  coffee,  seemed  to  make  a  strong 
effort  to  recover  himself,  and,  with  more  energy, 
said: 

"  I  asked  you  here  because  I  wanted  to  renew 
a  pleasant  acquaintanceship,  but  also  —  you  won't 
think  me  discourteous,  I  know  —  because  —  well, 
I  had  a  purpose  in  begging  you  to  come." 

"  Won't  you  tell  me  what  it  is?  " 

The  curate  shifted  in  his  armchair,  clasped  and 
unclasped  his  hands.  A  mental  struggle  was  evi- 
dently going  on  within  him.  Indeed,  during  the 
whole  evening  Mailing  had  received  from  him  a 
strong  impression  of  combat,  of  confusion. 

"  I  wanted  to  continue  the  discussion  we  began 
at  Mr.  Harding's  the  other  day.  You  remember, 
I  asked  you  not  to  tell  him  you  were  coming?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  I  think  it 's  best  to  keep  certain  matters 
private.  People  so  easily  misunderstand  one. 
And  the  rector  has  rather  a  jealous  nature." 

Mailing  looked  at  his  companion  without  speak- 
ing. At  this  moment  he  was  so  strongly  inter- 
ested that  he  simply  forgot  to  speak.  Never,  even 
at  a  successful  sitting  when,  the  possibility  of 
trickery  having  been  eliminated,  a  hitherto  hidden 

71 


THE  DWELLER 

truth  seemed  about  to  lift  a  torch  in  the  darkness 
and  to  illumine  an  unknown  world,  had  he  been 
more  absorbed  by  the  matter  in  hand.  Chiches- 
ter  did  not  seem  to  be  struck  by  his  silence,  and 
continued: 

"  And  then  not  every  one  is  fitted  to  compre- 
hend properly  certain  matters,  to  see  things  in 
their  true  light.  Now  the  other  day  you  said  a 
thing  that  greatly  impressed  me,  that  I  have  never 
been  able  to  get  out  of  my  mind  since.  You  said, 
'  Harm  can  never  come  from  truth.'  I  have  been 
thinking  about  those  words  of  yours,  night  and 
day,  night  and  day.  Tell  me  —  did  you  mean 
them?" 

The  question  came  from  Chichester's  lips  with 
such  force  that  Mailing  was  almost  startled. 

"  Certainly  I  meant  them,"  he  answered. 

"And  if  truth  slays?" 

"  And  is  death  the  worst  thing  that  can  happen 
to  a  man,  or  to  an  idea  —  some  wretched  fallacy, 
perhaps,  that  has  governed  the  minds  of  men, 
some  gross  superstition,  some  lie  that  darkens 
counsel?  " 

'  You  think  if  a  man  lives  by  a  lie  he  is  better 
dead?" 

"  Don't  you  think  so?" 
72 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

"  But  don't  we  all  need  a  crutch  to  help  us  along 
on  the  path  of  life?  " 

'What!  You,  a  clergyman,  think  that  it  is 
good  to  bolster  up  truth  with  lies?  "  said  Mailing, 
with  genuine  scorn. 

"I  did  n't  say  that." 

"  You  implied  it,  I  think." 

"  Perhaps  if  you  had  worked  among  men  and 
women  as  much  as  I  have  you  would  know  how 
much  they  need.  If  you  went  abroad,  say  to  Italy, 
and  saw  how  the  poor,  ignorant  people  live  happily 
oftentimes  by  their  blind  belief  in  the  efficacy  of  the 
saints,  would  you  wish  to  tear  it  from  them?  " 

"  I  think  we  should  live  by  the  truth,  and  I 
would  gladly  strike  away  a  lie  from  any  human 
being  who  was  using  it  as  a  crutch." 

"  /  thought  that  once,"  said  Chichester. 

The  words  were  ordinary  enough,  but  there  was 
something  either  in  the  way  they  were  said,  or  in 
Chichester's  face  as  he  said  them,  that  made  Mai- 
ling turn  cold. 

To  cover  his  unusual  emotion,  which  he  was 
ashamed  of,  and  which  he  greatly  desired  to  hide 
from  his  companion,  he  blew  out  a  puff  of  cigar 
smoke,  lifted  his  cup,  and  drank  the  rest  of  his 
coffee. 

73 


THE  DWELLER 

"  May  I  have  another  cup?  "  he  said.  "  It's 
excellent." 

The  coffee-pot  was  on  the  table.  Chichester 
poured  out  some  more. 

"  I  will  have  another  cup,  too,"  he  said. 
"  How  it  wakes  up  the  mind." 

He  glanced  at  Mailing  and  added : 

"  Almost  terribly  sometimes." 

"  Yes.  But  —  going  back  to  our  subject  — 
don't  you  still  think  that  men  should  live  by  the 
truth?" 

"  I  think,"  began  Chichester  — "  I  think  — " 

It  seemed  as  if  something  physical  prevented 
him  from  continuing.  He  swallowed,  as  if  forc- 
ing something  down  his  throat. 

"  I  think,"  he  got  out  at  last,  "  that  few  men 
know  how  terrible  the  face  of  truth  can  be." 

His  own  countenance  was  contorted  as  he  spoke, 
as  if  he  were  regarding  something  frightful. 

"  I  think  " —  he  turned  right  round  in  his  chair 
to  confront  Mailing  squarely  — "  that  you  do  not 
know." 

For  the  first  time  he  completely  dominated  Mai- 
ling, Chichester  the  gentle,  cherubic  clergyman, 
whom  Mailing  had  thought  of  as  good,  but  weak, 
and  certainly  as  a  negligible  quantity.  He  domi- 
nated, because  at  that  moment  he  made  Mailing 

74 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

feel  as  if  he  had  some  great  possession  of  knowl- 
edge which  Mailing  lacked. 

"And  you?"  said  Mailing.  "Do  you 
know?" 

The  curate's  lips  worked,  but  he  made  no  an- 
swer. 

Mailing  was  aware  of  a  great  struggle  in  his 
mind,  as  of  a  combat  in  which  two  forces  were 
engaged.  He  got  up,  walked  to  the  window,  and 
stood  as  if  listening  to  the  rain. 

"  If  only  Stepton  were  here !  "  thought  Mailing. 

There  was  a  truth  hidden  from  him,  perhaps 
partly  divined,  obscurely  half  seen,  but  not  thor- 
oughly understood,  as  a  whole  invisible.  Stepton 
would  be  the  man  to  elucidate  it,  Mailing  thought. 
It  lured  him  on,  and  baffled  him. 

"  How  it  rains!  "  said  the  curate  at  last,  with- 
out turning. 

He  bent  down  and  opened  the  small  window. 
The  uneasy,  almost  sinister  noise  of  rain  in  dark- 
ness entered  the  room,  with  the  soft  smell  of 
moisture. 

"Do  you  mind  if  we  have  a  little  air?"  he 
added. 

"  I  should  like  it,"  said  Mailing. 

Chichester  came  back  and  sat  down  again 
opposite  Mailing.  His  expression  had  now  quite 

75 


THE  DWELLER 

changed.  He  looked  calmer,  gentler,  weaker,  and 
much  more  uninteresting.  Crossing  his  legs,  and 
folding  his  thin  hands  on  his  knees,  he  began  to 
talk  in  his  light  tenor  voice.  And  he  kept  the 
conversation  going  on  church  music,  sacred  art  in 
Italy,  and  other  eminently  safe  and  respectable 
topics  till  it  was  time  for  Mailing  to  go. 

Only  when  he  was  letting  his  guest  out  into 
the  night  did  he  seem  troubled  once  more.  He 
clasped  Mailing's  hand  in  his,  as  if  almost  un- 
aware that  he  was  doing  so,  and  said  with  some 
hesitation : 

"  Are  you  —  are  you  going  to  see  the  rector 
again?  " 

"  Not  that  I  know  of,"  said  Mailing,  speaking 
the  strict  truth,  and  virtually  telling  a  lie  at  the 
same  time. 

For  he  was  determined,  if  possible,  to  see  Mr. 
Harding,  and  that  before  very  long. 

"  If  I  may  say  so,"  Chichester  said,  shifting 
from  one  foot  to  another  and  looking  down  at 
the  rain-sodden  pavement,  "  I  would  n't  see 
him." 

"  May  I  ask  you  why?  " 

'  You  may  get  a  wrong  impression.  Two  years 
ago  he  was  another  man.  Strangers,  of  course, 
may  not  know  it,  not  realize  it.  But  we  who 

76 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

have  lived  with  him  do  know  it.  Mr.  Harding  is 
going  down  the  hill." 

There  was  a  note  of  deep  sadness  in  his  voice. 
Had  he  been  speaking  of  himself,  of  his  own  de- 
cadence, his  tone  could  scarcely  have  been  more 
melancholy. 

And  for  long  Mailing  remembered  the  look  in 
his  eyes  as  he  drew  back  to  shut  his  door. 

In  the  rain  Mailing  walked  home  as  he  had 
come.  But  now  it  was  deep  in  the  night  and  his 
depression  had  deepened.  He  was  a  self-reliant 
man,  and  not  easily  felt  himself  small,  though  he 
was  not  conceited.  To-night  he  felt  diminished. 
The  worm-sensation  overcame  him.  That  such  a 
man  as  Chichester  should  have  been  able  to  convey 
to  him  such  a  sensation  was  strange,  yet  it  was 
from  Chichester  that  this  mental  chastisement  had 
come.  For  a  moment  Chichester  had  towered, 
and  at  that  moment  Mailing  surely  had  dwin- 
dled, shrunk  together,  like  a  sheet  of  paper  ex- 
posed to  the  heat  of  a  flame. 

But  that  Chichester  should  have  had  such  an 
effect  on  him  —  Mailing! 

If  Mr.  Harding  was  going  down  the  hill,  Chi- 
chester surely  was  not.  He  had  changed  dras- 
tically since  Mailing  had  known  him  two  years 
ago.  In  power,  in  force,  he  had  gained.  He 

77 


THE  DWELLER 

now  conveyed  the  impression  of  a  man  ca- 
pable, if  he  chose,  of  imposing  himself  on  others. 
Formerly  he  had  been  the  wax  that  receives  the 
impress.  But  whereas  formerly  he  had  been  a  con- 
tented man,  obviously  at  peace  with  himself  and 
with  the  world,  now  he  was  haunted  by  some  great 
anxiety,  by  some  strange  grief,  or  perhaps  even  by 
some  fear. 

"  Few  men  know  how  terrible  the  face  of  the 
truth  can  be." 

Chichester  had  said  that. 

Was  he  one  of  the  few  men? 

And  was  that  why  now,  as  Mailing  walked 
home  in  the  darkness  and  rain,  he  felt  himself 
humbled,  diminished? 

For  Mailing  loved  knowledge  and  thought  men 
should  live  by  it.  Had  truth  a  Medusa  face,  still 
would  he  have  desired  to  look  into  it  once,  would 
have  been  ready  to  endure  a  subsequent  turning  to 
stone. 

That  Chichester  should  perhaps  have  seen  what 
he  had  not  seen  —  that  troubled  him,  even  hum- 
bled him. 

Some  words  of  Professor  Stepton  came  back  to 
his  mind :  "  If  there  's  anything  in  it,  develop- 
ment will  take  place  in  the  link."  And  those  last 
words:  "  If  in  doubt,  study  Lady  Sophia." 

78 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

Mailing  was  in  doubt.  Why  not  follow  Step- 
ton's  advice?  Why  not  study  Lady  Sophia? 

He  resolved  to  do  it.  And  with  the  resolve 
came  to  him  a  sense  of  greater  well-being.  The 
worm-sensation  departed  from  him.  He  lifted  his 
head  and  walked  more  briskly. 


79 


ON  the  night  following  the  dinner  in  Hornton 
Street,  Mailing  went  to  the  Covent  Garden 
Opera  House  to  hear  "  La  Traviata."  The  well- 
worn  work  did  not  grasp  the  attention  of  a  man 
who  was  genuinely  fond  of  the  music  of  Richard 
Strauss,  with  its  almost  miraculous  intricacies,  and 
who  was  willingly  captive  to  Debussy.  He  looked 
about  the  house  from  his  stall,  and  very  soon 
caught  sight  of  Lady  Mansford,  Lady  Sophia's 
sister-in-law,  in  a  box  on  the  Grand  Tier.  Mai- 
ling knew  Lady  Mansford.  He  resolved  to  pay 
her  a  visit,  and  as  soon  as  the  curtain  was  down, 
and  Tetrazzini  had  tripped  before  it,  smiling  not 
unlike  a  good-natured  child,  he  made  his  way  up- 
stairs, and  asked  the  attendant  to  tap  at  a  door  on 
which  was  printed,  "  The  Earl  of  Mansford." 
The  man  did  so,  and  opened  the  door,  showing 
a  domestic  scene  highly  creditable  to  the  much 
maligned  British  aristocracy  —  Lord  Mansford 
seated  alone  with  his  wife,  in  evidently  amicable 
conversation. 

After  a  few  polite  words  he  made  Mailing  sit 
80 


THE  DWELLER 

down  beside  her,   and,   saying  he  would  have  a 
cigarette  in  the  foyer,  he  left  them  together. 

Lady  Mansford  was  a  pretty,  dark  woman,  of 
the  slightly  irresponsible  and  little-bird  type.  She 
willingly  turned  her  charmingly  dressed  head  and 
chirped  when  noticed,  and  she  was  generally  no- 
ticed because  of  her  beauty.  Now  she  chirped  of 
Ceylon,  where  Mailing  had  been,  and  then,  more 
vivaciously,  of  Parisian  milliners,  where  she  had 
been.  From  these  allied  subjects  Mailing  led  her 
on  to  a  slightly  different  topic  —  religion. 

"  I  went  to  St.  Joseph's  last  Sunday  week,"  he 
presently  said. 

"  St.  who  —  what?  "  said  Lady  Mansford,  who 
was  busy  with  her  opera-glasses,  and  had  just  no- 
ticed that  Lady  Sindon,  a  bird-like  rival  of  hers, 
had  changed  the  color  of  hei;  hair,  fortunately  to 
her  —  Lady  Sindon's  —  disadvantage. 

"  To  St.  Joseph's,  to  hear  your  brother-in-law 
preach." 

"  It  does  n't  do  at  all,"  murmured  Lady  Mans- 
ford. "  It  makes  her  look  Chinese." 

"  You  said  —  ?  " 

"  Mollie  Sindon.  But  what  were  you  talking 
about?  Do  tell  me."  She  laid  down  her  glasses. 

"  I  was  saying  that  I  went  to  church  last  Sunday 
week." 

6  81 


THE  DWELLER 

"Why?" 

"  To  hear  your  brother-in-law  preach  at  St. 
Joseph's." 

"  Marcus !  "   exclaimed  Lady  Mansford. 

She  pursed  her  lips. 

"  I  don't  go  to  St.  Joseph's.  Poor  Sophy ! 
I  'm  sorry  for  her." 

"  I  lunched  with  Lady  Sophia  after  the  service." 

"Did  you?     Is  n't  it  sad?" 

"  Sad!  I  don't  quite  understand?  "  said  Mai- 
ling, interrogatively. 

"  The  change  in  him.  Of  course  people  say 
it 's  drink.  Such  nonsense !  But  they  must  say 
something,  mustn't  they?" 

"  Is  Mr.  Harding  so  very  much  changed?  " 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  did  n't  notice  it?  " 

"  I  never  met  him  till  within  the  last  fortnight." 

"  He  's  transformed  —  simply.  He  might  have 
risen  to  anything,  with  his  energy,  his  ambition, 
and  his  connections.  And  now !  But  the  worst 
of  it  is  no  one  can  make  out  why  it  is.  Even 
Sophia  and  Isinglass  —  my  husband,  you  know ! 
—  have  n't  an  idea.  And  it  gets  worse  every  day. 
Last  Sunday  I  hear  his  sermon  was  too  awful,  a 
mere  muddle  of  adjectives,  such  as  one  hears  in 
Hyde  Park,  I  believe.  I  never  liked  Marcus  par- 
ticularly. I  always  thought  him  too  autocratic, 

82 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

too  determined  to  dominate.  He  had  that  poor 
little  Mr.  Chichester  —  his  curate  —  completely 
under  his  thumb.  Mr.  Chichester  could  n't  call 
his  soul  his  own.  He  worshiped  Marcus.  But 
now  they  say  even  he  is  beginning  to  think  that  his 
god  is  of  clay.  What  can  it  be?  Do  you  think 
Marcus  is  losing  his  mind?  " 

"  Oh,  I  should  hope  not,"  returned  Mailing, 
vaguely.  "  Has  it  been  going  on  long?  " 

"  Oh,  for  quite  a  time.  But  it  all  seemed  to 
come  on  gradually  —  as  things  do,  you  know ! 
Poor  Sophy  has  always  adored  him,  and  given  way 
to  him  in  everything.  In  her  eyes  all  that  he  does 
is  right.  She  never  says  a  word,  I  believe,  but 
she  must  be  suffering  the  tortures  of  —  you  know ! 
There  's  Winnie  Rufford  coming  in !  How  aston- 
ishingly young  she  looks.  Were  you  at  the  Hunt- 
ingham's  ball?  Well—" 

Lady  Mansford  twittered  no  more  about  the 
Harding'  menage.  But  Mailing  felt  that  his  visit 
had  not  been  fruitless. 

After  the  opera  he  went  to  a  party  in  Gros- 
venor  Street  where  again  he  managed  to  produce 
talk  of  the  Hardings.  It  seemed  that  Lady  Mans- 
ford had  not  exaggerated  very  much.  Among 
those  who  knew  the  Hardings  a  change  in  the  rec- 
tor of  St.  Joseph's  had  evidently  been  generally 

83 


THE  DWELLER 

noticed.  Mailing  took  in  to  supper  a  Mrs. 
Armitage,  a  great  friend  of  Lady  Sophia's,  and 
she  made  no  secret  of  the  fact  that  Lady  Sophia 
was  greatly  distressed. 

"  I  thought  she  would  have  been  here  to-night," 
Mrs.  Armitage  said.  "  But  she  is  n't.  I  suppose 
she  felt  she  couldn't  face  it.  So  many  of  his 
congregation  are  here,  or  so  many  who  were  in  his 
congregation." 

"  The  church  was  crammed  to  the  doors  last 
Sunday  week  when  he  preached,"  observed  Mai- 
ling. 

"Was  it?  Curiosity,  I  suppose.  It  certainly 
can't  have  been  the  intellectual  merit  of  the 
sermon.  I  heard  it  was  quite  deplorable.  But 
last  Sunday's,  I  was  told,  was  worse  still.  No 
continuity  at  all,  and  the  church  not  full.  People 
say  the  curate,  Mr.  Chichester,  who  often  preaches 
in  the  evening,  is  making  a  great  effect,  completely 
cutting  out  his  rector.  And  he  used  to  be  almost 
unbearably  dull." 

"  Will  you  have  a  quail  ?  " 

"  Please.  You  might  give  me  two.  My  doc- 
tor says  if  I  sit  up  late  —  thank  you !  " 

"  I  Ve  never  heard  Mr.  Chichester  preach," 
said  Mailing. 

84 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

"  He  seems  to  have  come  on  marvelously,  to  be 
quite  another  man." 

"  Quite  another  man,  does  he?  " 

"  Yes.  It 's  very  trying  for  the  Hardings  nat- 
urally. If  it  continues  I  think  there  will  have  to 
be  a  change.  I  don't  think  things  can  go  on  as  they 
are.  My  friend  Sophia  won't  be  able  to  stand  it." 

"  You  mean  —  the  contrast?  " 

"  Between  her  husband  and  Mr.  Chichester. 
She  's  very  highly  strung  and  quite  worships  her 
husband;  though,  between  you  and  me,  /  think 
rather  in  the  slave  spirit.  But  some  women  are 
like  that.  They  can't  admire  a  man  unless  he 
beats  them.  Not  that  Mr.  Harding  ever  dreamed 
of  doing  such  a  thing  to  Sophia,  of  course.  But 
his  will  had  to  be  law  in  everything.  You  know 
the  type  of  man !  It  rs  scarcely  my  idea  of  what  a 
clergyman  should  be.  I  think  a  man  who  pro- 
fesses to  direct  the  souls  of  others  should  be  more 
gentle  and  unselfish,  especially  to  his  wife.  An- 
other quail?  Well,  really,  I  think  perhaps  I  will. 
They  are  so  absurdly  small  this  season,  aren't 
they?  There  's  scarcely  anything  on  them." 

So  that  minute  fraction  of  the  world  that  knew 
of  the  existence  of  the  Hardings  began  to  utter 
itself  concerning  them,  and  Mailing  was  fortified 

85 


THE  DWELLER 

in  his  original  belief  which  he  had  expressed  to 
Professor  Stepton. 

Among  his  many  experiments  made  in  connec- 
tion with  psychical  research  those  which  had 
interested  him  the  most  had  been  those  in  which 
the  mystery  of  the  human  will  had  seemed  to  be 
deeply  involved.  Mailing  was  essentially  a  psy- 
chologist. And  man  was  to  him  the  great  mys- 
tery, because  man  contained  surely  something 
that  belonged  to,  that  was  lent  to,  man,  as  it  were, 
by  another,  the  mind  beyond,  the  amma  mundi. 
When  Mailing  drew  mentally,  or  spiritually,  very 
near  to  any  man,  however  rude,  however  humble, 
he  always  had  the  feeling  that  he  was  approach- 
ing holy  ground.  Hidden  beneath  his  generally 
imperturbable  exterior,  sunk  beneath  the  surface 
incredulity  of  his  mind,  there  was  the  deep  sense 
of  mighty  truths  waiting  the  appointed  day  of 
proclamation.  Surely,  he  often  thought,  if  there 
is  God  in  anything,  in  the  last  rays  of  the  sunset, 
in  the  silence  of  night  upon  the  sea,  in  the 
waking  of  spring  among  the  forests  and  the  gar- 
dens, in  the  song  of  the  nightingale  which  knows 
not  lovers  are  listening,  there  is  God  in  the  will 
of  man. 

And  when  he  made  investigations  into  the  ac- 
tion of  will  upon  will,  or  of  will  —  as  it  seemed  — 

86 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

upon  matter,  he  was  held,  as  he  was  not  held  by 
the  appearance  of  so-called  spirit  faces  and  spirit 
forms,  even  when  he  could  not  connect  these 
with  trickery  which  he  knew  how  to  expose.  Per- 
haps, however,  his  incredulity  in  regard  to  these 
latter  phenomena  was  incurable,  though  he  did  not 
know  it.  For  he  knew  nearly  all  the  devices  of 
the  charlatans.  And  when  the  so-called  spirits 
came,  the  medium  was  always  entranced,  that  is, 
apparently  will-less,  and  so  to  Mailing  not  inter- 
esting. 

Now,  from  what  Harding  and  Chichester  had 
said  to  him,  and  from  what  he  had  observed  for 
himself,  Mailing  believed  that  the  two  clergymen 
must  have  had  sittings  together,  probably  with  the 
usual  tremendous  object  of  the  ignorant  amateur, 
that  merely  of  communicating  with  the  other 
world.  Considering  who  the  two  men  were,  Mai- 
ling believed  that  in  all  probability  they  had  sat 
alone  and  in  secret.  He  also  felt  little  doubt  that 
from  Mr.  Harding's  brain  had  come  the  suggestion 
of  these  practices,  that  his  will  had  led  Chichester 
on  to  them.  Although  he  had  not  known  the 
rector  two  years  ago,  he  had  gathered  sufficient 
testimony  to  the  fact  that  he  had  been  a  man  of 
powerful,  even  perhaps  of  tyrannical,  tempera- 
ment, formed  rather  to  rule  than  to  be  ruled. 

8? 


THE  DWELLER 

He  knew  that  Chichester,  on  the  contrary,  had 
been  gentle,  kindly,  yielding,  and  of  somewhat 
weak,  though  of  very  amiable,  nature.  The 
physique  of  the  two  men  accorded  with  these 
former  temperaments.  Harding's  commanding 
height,  large  frame,  big,  powerful  face  and  head, 
rather  hard  gray  eyes,  even  his  large  white  teeth, 
his  bony,  determined  hands,  his  firmly  treading 
feet,  suggested  force,  a  dominating  will,  the  ca- 
pacity, and  tffe  intention,  to  rule.  Henry  Chi- 
chester's  fleshly  envelop,  on  the  other  hand,  cheru- 
bic, fair,  and  delicate,  his  blue  eyes,  small  bones, 
the  shape  of  forehead  and  chin,  the  line  of  the 
lips,  hinted  at  —  surely  more  than  that,  surely 
stated  mildly  —  the  existence  within  it  of  a  nature 
retiring,  meek,  and  ready  to  be  ruled  by  others. 
No  wonder  if  Chichester  had  been,  as  Lady  Mans- 
ford  had  said,  completely  under  the  rector's  thumb, 
no  wonder  if  he  had  been  unable  to  "  call  his  soul 
his  own  "  and  had  "  worshiped  Marcus." 

Yes,  if  there  had  been  these  secret  sittings  by 
these  two  men,  it  was  Harding  who  had  persuaded 
Chichester  to  take  part  in  them.  And  what  had 
these  sittings  led  to,  what  had  been  their  result? 

The  ignorant  outsider,  the  hastily  skeptical,  of 
course  would  say  that  there  could  have  been  no 
result.  Mailing,  knowing  more,  knew  better. 

88 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

He  had  seen  strange  cases  of  temporary  confusion 
of  a  man's  will  brought  about  by  sittings,  of  what 
had  seemed  temporary  change  even  of  a  man's 
nature.  When  a  hitherto  sane  man  goes  mad  he 
often  becomes  the  opposite  of  what  he  was. 
Those  whom  he  formerly  loved  he  specially 
singles  out  for  hatred.  That  which  he  delighted 
to  do  he  shrinks  from  with  horror.  Once  good- 
natured,  he  is  now  of  an  evil  temper,  once  gentle, 
he  is  fiercely  obstinate,  once  gay,  he  cowers  and 
weeps.  So  Mailing  had  known  a  man,  while  re- 
taining his  sanity,  to  be  transformed  by  the  ap- 
parently trivial  fact  of  sitting  at  a  table  with  a 
friend,  and  placing  his  hands  upon  it  with  the 
hands  of  another  man.  He  himself  had  sat  with 
an  Oxford  friend, —  who  in  later  sittings  became 
entranced, —  and  at  the  very  first  experiment  this 
man  had  said  to  him,  "  It 's  so  strange,  now  that 
I  am  sitting  with  you  like  this  I  feel  filled  with 
hatred  toward  you."  This  hatred,  which  had 
come  upon  this  man  at  every  successive  sitting,  had 
always  faded  away  when  the  sitting  was  over. 
But  was  it  certain  that  the  feelings  generated  in 
sittings  never  persisted  after  they  were  broken 
up?  Was  it  certain  that  in  every  case  the  waters 
that  had  been  mysteriously  troubled  settled  into 
their  former  stillness? 

89 


THE  DWELLER 

Harding  and  Chichester,  for  instance!  Had 
the  strong  man  troubled  the  waters  of  the  weaker 
man's  soul,  and  were  those  waters  still  agitated? 
That  was  perhaps  possible.  But  Mailing  thought 
it  was  possible  also,  and  he  had  suggested  this  to 
Professor  Stepton,  that  the  weaker  man  had  in- 
fused some  of  his  weakness,  his  self-doubtings,  his 
readiness  to  be  affected  by  the  opinion  of  others, 
into  his  dominating  companion.  Mailing  believed 
it  possible  that  the  wills  of  the  two  clergymen,  in 
some  mysterious  and  inexplicable  way,  had 
mingled  during  their  sittings,  and  that  they  had 
never  become  completely  disentangled.  If  this 
were  so,  the  result  was  a  different  Harding  from 
the  former  Harding,  and  a  different  Henry  Chi- 
chester from  the  former  Henry  Chichester. 

What  puzzled  Mailing,  however,  was  the  fact, 
if  fact  it  were,  that  the  difference  in  each  man  was 
not  diminishing,  but  increasing. 

Could  they  be  continuing  the  sittings,  if  there  had 
ever  been  sittings?  All  was  surmise.  As  the  pro- 
fessor had  said,  he,  Mailing,  was  perhaps  de- 
ducing a  good  deal  from  very  little.  And  yet  was 
he?  His  instinct  told  him  he  was  not.  Yet  there 
might  no  doubt  be  some  ordinary  cause  for  the 
change  in  Mr.  Harding.  Some  vice,  such  as  love 
of  drink,  or  morphia,  something  that  disintegrates 

90 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

a  man,  might  have  laid  its  claw  upon  him. 
That  was  possible.  What  seemed  to  Mailing 
much  more  unaccountable  was  the  extraordinary 
change  in  the  direction  of  strength  in  Chichester. 
And  the  relations  between  the  two  men,  if  indeed 
the  curate  had  once  worshiped  his  rector,  were 
mysteriously  transformed.  For  now,  was  it  not 
almost  as  if  something  of  Harding  in  Chichester 
watched,  criticized,  Chichester  in  Harding? 

But  now  —  to  study  Lady  Sophia !  For  if  there 
was  really  anything  in  Mailing's  curious  supposi- 
tion, the  woman  must  certainly  be  strangely  af- 
fected. He  remembered  the  expression  in  her 
eyes  when  her  husband  was  preaching,  her  manner 
when  she  spoke  of  the  curate  as  one  of  her  hus- 
band's swans. 

And  he  longed  to  see  her  again.  She  had  said 
that  she  hoped  he  would  come  again  to  St.  Joseph's 
and  to  her  house,  but  he  knew  well  that  any  such 
desire  in  her  had  arisen  from  her  wounded  pride  in 
her  husband.  She  wished  Mailing  to  know  what 
the  rector  could  really  do.  When  she  thought 
that  the  rector  had  recovered  his  former  powers, 
his  hold  upon  the  minds  of  men,  then  she  would 
invite  Mailing  to  return  to  St.  Joseph's,  but  not 
before. 

And  when  would  that  moment  come? 
91 


THE  DWELLER 

It  might  not  come  for  weeks,  for  months.  It 
might  never  come.  Mailing  did  not  mean  to 
await  it.  Nevertheless  he  did  not  want  to  do  any- 
thing likely  to  surprise  Lady  Sophia,  to  lead  her 
to  think  that  he  had  any  special  object  in  view  in 
furthering  his  acquaintance  with  her. 

While  he  was  casting  about  in  his  mind  what 
course  to  take,  chance  favored  him. 

Four  days  later,  when  he  was  strolling  round 
the  rooms  in  Burlington  House,  he  saw  not  far 
in  front  of  him  the  tall  and  restless  figure  of  a 
woman.  She  was  alone.  For  some  time  Mailing 
did  not  recognize  her.  She  did  not  turn  suffi- 
ciently for  him  to  see  her  face,  and  her  almost 
feverish  movements,  though  they  attracted  and 
fixed  his  attention,  did  not  strike  him  as  familiar. 
His  thought  of  her,  as  he  slowly  followed  in  the 
direction  she  was  taking,  was,  "  What  a  difficult 
woman  that  would  be  to  live  with !  "  For  the 
hands  were  never  still;  the  gait  was  uneasy; 
nervousness,  almost  a  sort  of  pitiful  irritation, 
seemed  expressed  by  her  every  movement. 

In  the  big  room  this  woman  paused  before  the 
picture  of  the  year,  which  happened  to  be  a  very 
bad  one,  and  Mailing,  coming  up,  at  last  recog- 
nized her  as  Lady  Sophia  Harding. 

He  took  off  his  hat.  She  seemed  startled,  but 
92 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

greeted  him  pleasantly,  and  entered  into  a  discus- 
sion of  the  demerits  which  fascinate  the  crowd. 

"  You  prefer  seeing  pictures  alone,  perhaps?  " 
said  Mailing,  presently. 

"  Indeed  I  don't,"  she  answered.  "  I  was 
coming  to-day  with  my  husband.  We  drove  up 
together.  But  at  the  last  moment  he  thought  he 
remembered  something, —  some  appointment  with 
Mr.  Chichester, —  and  left  me." 

There  were  irony  and  bitterness  in  her  voice. 

"  He  said  he  'd  come  back  and  meet  me  in  the 
tea-room  presently,"  she  added. 

"  Shall  we  go  there  and  wait  for  him?  "  asked 
Mailing. 

"  But  I  'm  afraid  I  'm  taking  up  your  time." 

"  I  have  no  engagements  this  afternoon.  I 
shall  enjoy  a  quiet  talk  with  you." 

"  It 's  very  good  of  you." 

They  descended,  and  sat  down  in  a  quiet  corner. 
In  the  distance  a  few  respectable  persons  were 
slowly  eating  bath-buns  with  an  air  of  fashion, 
their  duly  marked  catalogues  laid  beside  them  on 
marble. 

Far-off  waiters,  standing  with  their  knees  bent, 
conversed  in  undertones.  A  sort  of  subterranean 
depression,  peculiar  to  this  fastness  of  Burlington 
House,  brooded  over  the  china  and  the  provisions. 

93 


THE  DWELLER 

"  It  reminds  me  of  the  British  Museum  tea- 
room," said  Lady  Sophia.  "  Here  is  tea !  What 
a  mercy!  Modern  pictures  sap  one's  little 
strength." 

She  looked  haggard,  and  was1  obviously  on  the 
edge  of  her  nerves. 

"  Marcus  might  have  come  in,"  she  added. 
"  But  of  course  he  would  n't  —  or  could  n't." 

"Doesn't  he  care  for  pictures?" 

She  slightly  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  He  used  to.  But  I  don't  know  that  he  does 
now." 

"  I  suppose  he  has  a  tremendous  amount  to  do." 

"  He  used  to  do  much  more  at  Liverpool.  If 
a  man  wishes  to  come  to  the  front  he  must  n't  sit 
in  an  armchair  with  folded  hands." 

There  was  a  sharp  sound  of  criticism  in  her 
voice  which  astonished  Mailing.  At  the  luncheon, 
only  about  a  fortnight  ago,  she  had  shown  herself 
plainly  as  the  adoring  wife,  anxious  for  her  hus- 
band's success,  nervously  hostile  to  any  one  who 
interfered  with  it,  who  stood  between  him  and  the 
homage  of  his  world.  Now  Mailing  noted,  or 
thought  he  noted,  a  change  in  her  mental  attitude. 
He  was  instantly  on  the  alert. 

"  I  'm  sure  that 's  the  last  thing  Mr.  Harding 
would  do,"  he  said. 

94 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

She  shot  a  glance  at  him  out  of  her  discontented 
dark  eyes. 

"  Are  you?  "  she  said. 

And  sarcasm  crept  in  the  words.  She  gave  to 
Mailing  at  this  moment  the  impression  of  a  woman 
so  strung  up  as  to  be  not  her  natural  self,  so 
tormented  by  some  feeling,  perhaps  long  repressed, 
that  her  temperament  was  almost  furiously  seeking 
an  outlet,  knowing  instinctively,  perhaps,  that  only 
there  lay  its  salvation. 

"  His  record  proves  it,"  said  Mailing,  with  se- 
renely smiling  assurance. 

Lady  Sophia  twisted  her  lips.  The  Academy 
tea  was  very  strong.  Perhaps  it  had  been  stand- 
ing. She  drank  a  little,  pulled  at  her  long  gloves 
restlessly,  and  looked  at  Mailing.  He  knew  she 
was  longing  to  confide  in  somebody.  If  only  he 
could  induce  her  to  confide  in  him! 

"  Oh,  my  husband  's  been  a  very  active  man," 
she  said.  "  Everybody  knows  that.  But  in  this 
modern  world  of  ours  one  must  not  walk,  or  even 
run  along,  one  must  keep  on  rushing  along  if 
one  intends  to  reach  the  goal." 

"  And  by  that  you  mean  —  ?  " 

"  Mean !  The  topmost  height  of  your  profes- 
sion, or  business,  of  whatever  career  you  are  in." 

"  You  are  ambitious,"  he  said. 
95 


THE  DWELLER 

"Not  for  myself,"  she  answered  quickly.  "I 
have  no  ambition  for  myself." 

"  But  perhaps  the  ambition  to  spur  on  another 
successfully?  That  seems  to  me  the  truest,  the 
most  legitimate  ambition  of  the  woman  all  men 
worship  in  their  hearts." 

Suddenly  tears  started  into  her  eyes.  She  was 
sitting  opposite  Mailing,  the  tea-table  between 
them.  Now  she  leaned  forward  across  it.  By  na- 
ture she  was  very  sensitive,  but  she  was  not  a  self- 
conscious,  woman.  She  was  not  self-conscious  now. 

"  It  is  much  better  to  be  selfish,"  she  said  earn- 
estly. "  That  is  where  we  women  make  such  a 
fatal  mistake.  Instead  of  trusting  to  ourselves, 
of  relying  on  ourselves,  and  of  having  a  personal 
ambition,  we  seek  always  another  in  whom  we  may 
trust;  we  are  unhappy  till  we  rely  on  another;  it 
is  for  another  we  cherish,  we  hug,  ambition.  And 
then,  when  all  founders,  we  realize  too  late  what 
I  dare  say  every  man  knows." 

"What  is  that?" 
'  That  we  women  are  fools  —  fools !  " 

"  For  being  unselfish?  " 

"  For  thinking  we  have  power  when  we  are  im- 
potent" 

She  made  a  gesture  that  was  surely  one  of 
despair. 

96 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

"  No  one  —  at  any  rate,  no  woman  —  has 
power  for  another,"  she  added,  with  almost  terri- 
ble conviction.  "  That  is  all  a  legend,  made  up 
to  please  us,  I  suppose.  We  draw  a  sword  against 
darkness  and  think  we  are  fighting.  Is  n't  it  too 
absurd?" 

With  the  last  words  she  changed  her  tone,  try- 
ing to  make  it  light,  and  she  smiled. 

"  We  take  everything  too  seriously.  That 's 
the  trouble !  "  she  said.  "  And  men  pretend  we 
take  nothing  seriously." 

"  Very  often  they  don't  understand." 

"  Oh,  please  say  never !  "  she  exclaimed. 
"  They  never  understand." 

Suddenly  Mailing  resolved  on  a  very  bold  stroke. 

"  But  I  'm  a  man,"  he  said,  as  if  that  obvious 
fact  shattered  her  contention. 

"  What  has  that  got  to  do  with  it?  "  she  said, 
in  obvious  surprise. 

"  Because  I  do  not  understand." 

For  a  moment  she  was  silent.  He  thought  he 
read  what  was  passing  through  her  mind,  as  he 
knew  he  had  read  her  character.  She  was  one  of 
those  women  who  must  be  proud  of  their  men, 
who  love  to  be  ruled,  but  only  by  a  conqueror, 
who  delight  to  sink  themselves,  but  in  power,  not 
in  impotence.  And  now  she  was  confronted  by  the 
7  97 


THE  DWELLER 

shipwreck  not  merely  of  her  hopes,  but  also  of 
her  belief.  She  saw  a  hulk  drifting  at  the  mercy 
of  the  waves  that,  perhaps,  would  soon  engulf  it. 
But  she  was  not  only  despairing,  she  was  raging 
too.  For  she  was  a  woman  with  nervous  force 
in  her,  and  it  is  force  that  rages  in  the  moments 
of  despair,  seeking,  perhaps  unconsciously,  some 
means  of  action  and  finding  none. 

"  Why  should  there  not  be  some  hope?  "  asked 
Mailing,  quietly. 

"  To-morrow  is  Sunday.  If  you  go  to  morning 
church  at  St.  Joseph's,  and  then  to  evening  church, 
you  will  see  if  there  is  any  hope." 

"  To  evening  church?  " 

"  Yes,  yes." 

She  got  up. 

"  You  are  going?  " 

"  I  must.     Forgive  me !  " 

She  held  out  her  hand. 

"But—" 

"  No,  don't  come  with  me,  please." 

"  If  I  go  to  St.  Joseph's  to-morrow,  afterward 
may  I  see  you  again?  " 

"  If  you  think  it 's  worth  while." 

Her  face  twisted.  Hastily  she  pulled  down  her 
veil,  turned  away  and  left  him. 


98 


VI 


MALLING  went  the  next  day  to  morning  and 
evening  service  at  St.  Joseph's.  He  was 
not  invited  to  lunch  in  Onslow  Gardens,  and  he 
did  not  see  Lady  Sophia.  On  the  whole,  he  was 
glad  of  this.  He  had  enough  to  keep  in  his 
mind  that  day.  The  matter  in  which  he  was  in- 
terested seemed  growing  before  his  eyes,  like  a 
thing  coming  out  of  the  earth,  but  now  beginning 
to  thrust  itself  up  into  regions  where  perhaps  it 
would  eventually  be  hidden  in  darkness,  with  the 
great  company  of  mysteries  whose  unraveling  is 
beyond  the  capacity  of  man. 

He  had  now,  he  felt  sure,  a  clear  comprehension 
of  Lady  Sophia.  Their  short  interview  at  Burling- 
ton House  had  been  illuminating.  She  was  a  typi- 
cal example  of  the  Adam's-rib  woman;  that  is,  of 
the  woman  who,  intensely,  almost  exaggeratedly 
feminine,  can  live  in  any  fullness  only  through 
another,  and  that  other  a  man.  Through  Mr. 
Harding  Lady  Sophia  had  hitherto  lived,  and  had 
doubtless,  in  her  view,  triumphed.  Obviously  a 
woman  not  free  from  a  nervous  vanity,  and  a 

99 


THE  DWELLER 

woman  of  hungry  ambition,  her  vanity  and  ambi- 
tion had  been  fed  by  his  growing  notoriety,  his 
increasing  success  and  influence.  The  rib  had 
thrilled  with  the  body  to  which  it  belonged. 

But  that  time  of  happy  emotion,  of  admiration, 
of  keen  looking  forward,  was  the  property  of  the 
past.  Lawn  sleeves,  purple,  perhaps, —  for  who 
is  more  hopeful  than  this  type  of  woman  in  the 
golden  moments  of  life?  —  perhaps  even  an  archi- 
episcopal  throne  faded  from  before  the  eyes  they 
had  gladdened  —  the  eyes  of  faith  in  a  man. 

And  a  different  woman  was  beginning  to  appear 
—  a  woman  who  might  be  as  critical  as  she  had 
formerly  been  admiring,  a  woman  capable  of  be- 
coming embittered. 

On  the  Sunday  of  Mailing's  visit  to  Onslow 
Gardens,  Mr.  Harding's  failure  in  the  pulpit  had 
waked  up  in  his  wife  eager  sympathy  and  eager 
spite,  the  one  directed  toward  the  man  who  had 
failed,  the  other  toward  the  man  who,  as  Mailing 
felt  sure,  had  caused  the  failure. 

In  Burlington  House  that  woman,  whom  men 
with  every  reason  adore,  had  given  place  to  an- 
other less  favorable  toward  him  who  had  been  her 
hero. 

It  seemed  to  Mailing  as  if  in  the  future  a  strange 
thing  might  happen,  almost  as  if  it  must  happen :  it 

100 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

seemed  to  him  as  if  Chichester  might  convey  his 
view  of  his  rector  to  his  rector's  wife. 

"  Study  the  link,"  Stepton  had  said.  "  There 
will  be  development  in  the  link." 

Already  the  words  had  proved  true.  There 
had  been  a  development  in  Lady  Sophia  such  as 
Mailing  had  certainly  not  anticipated.  Where 
would  it  end?  Again  and  again,  as  he  listened 
to  the  morning  and  evening  sermons,  Mailing  had 
asked  himself  that  question;  again  and  again  he 
had  recalled  his  conversation  at  Burlington  House 
with  Lady  Sophia. 

In  the  morning  at  St.  Joseph's  Mr.  Harding 
had  preached  to  a  church  that  was  half  filled;  in 
the  evening  Henry  Chichester  had  preached  to  a 
church  that  was  full  to  the  doors.  And  each  of 
the  clergymen  in  turn  had  listened  to  the  other,  but 
how  differently! 

Mr.  Harding  had  ascended  to  the  pulpit  with 
failure  staring  him  in  the  face,  and  whereas  on 
the  Sunday  when  Mailing  first  heard  him  he  had 
obviously  fought  against  the  malign  influence 
which  eventually  had  prevailed  over  him,  this  time 
he  had  not  had  the  vigor  to  make  a  struggle.  Cer- 
tainly he  had  not  broken  down.  It  might  be  said 
of  him,  as  it  was  once  said  of  a  nation,  that  he  had 
"  muddled  through."  He  had  preached  a  very 

101 


THE  DWELLER 

poor  sermon  in  a  very  poor  way,  nervously,  indeed, 
almost  timidly,  and  with  the  manner  of  a  man  who 
was  cowed  and  hopeless.  The  powerful  opti- 
mism for  which  he  had  once  been  distinguished  had 
given  way  to  an  almost  unhealthy  pessimism,  alien 
surely  to  the  minds  of  all  believers,  of  all  who  pro- 
fess to  look  forward  to  that  life  of  which,  as  Tol- 
stoi long  ago  said,  our  present  life  is  but  a  dream. 
Even  when  he  was  uttering  truths  he  spoke  them 
as  if  he  had  an  uneasy  suspicion  that  they  were 
lies.  At  moments  he  seemed  to  be  almost  plead- 
ing with  his  hearers  to  tolerate  him,  to  "  bear  with 
him."  Indeed,  several  times  during  his  disjointed 
remarks  he  made  use  of  the  latter  expression, 
promising  that  his  discourse  should  be  a  short  one. 
Very  carefully  he  included  himself  among  those 
aware  of  sin,  very  humbly  he  declared  the  un- 
worthiness  of  any  man  to  set  himself  up  as  a 
teacher  and  leader  of  others. 

Now,  humility  is  all  very  well,  but  if  carried 
to  excess,  it  suggests  something  less  than  a  man. 
Mr.  Harding  almost  cringed  before  his  congrega- 
tion. Mailing  did  not  feel  that  his  humility  was 
a  pretense.  On  the  contrary,  it  struck  him  as 
abominably  real,  but  so  excessive  as  to  be  not  nat- 
ural in  any  thorough  man  in  a  normal  condition  of 
mind  and  of  body.  It  was  the  sort  of  humility 

102 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

that  creates  in  the  unregenerate  a  desire  to  offer 
a  good  kicking  as  a  corrective. 

Very  different  was  the  effect  created  by  Chi- 
chester's  sermon  in  the  evening.  Mailing,  aware 
though  he  had  become  of  the  great  strengthening  of 
Chichester,  was  amazed  when  he  heard  him 
preach. 

Often  it  is  said  of  a  very  fine  preacher  that  he 
preached  as  one  inspired.  Chichester  preached  as 
one  who  knew.  Never  before  had  Mailing  been 
so  impressed  with  the  feeling  that  he  was  listening 
to  truth,  absolute  truth,  as  he  was  while  he  listened 
to  Chichester.  There  was  something,  though, 
that  was  almost  deadly  about  it.  It  pierced  like  a 
lancet.  It  seared  like  a  red-hot  iron.  It  hum- 
bled almost  too  much.  Here  was  no  exaggerated 
humility,  no  pleading  to  be  borne  with,  no  cring- 
ing, and  no  doubt.  A  man  who  knew  was  stand- 
ing up,  and,  with  a  sort  of  indifference  to  outside 
opinion  that  was  almost  frightening,  was  saying 
some  of  the  things  he  knew  about  men,  women  — 
and  surely  God! 

The  subject  was  somewhat  akin  to  that  of  the 
first  sermon  of  Mr.  Harding  which  Mailing  had 
heard.  The  rector  then  had  preached  on  self- 
knowledge.  The  curate,  now,  preached  on  hy- 
pocrisy. Incidentally  he  destroyed  his  rector's 

103 


THE  DWELLER 

sermon,  flung  it  away  on  the  scrap-heap,  and 
passed  on.  This  was  not  done  viciously,  but  it 
was  done  relentlessly.  Indeed,  that  was  the  note 
of  the  whole  sermon.  It  was  relentless,  as  truth 
is  relentless,  as  death  is  relentless.  And  besides 
being  terribly  true,  it  was  imaginative.  But  the 
preacher  almost  succeeded  in  conveying  the  im- 
pression to  his  congregation  that  what  is  generally 
called  imagination  is  really  vision,  that  the  true 
imagination  is  seeing  what  is,  but  is  often  hidden, 
knowing  what  is,  but  is  often  unknown.  The 
latter  part  of  the  sermon  struck  Mailing  as  very 
unusual,  even  as  very  daring. 

The  preacher  had  spoken  of  the  many  varieties 
of  hypocrisy.  Finally  he  drew  a  picture  of  a  fin- 
ished hypocrite.  And  the  man  lived  as  a  man 
lives  in  the  pages  of  a  great  writer.  One  could 
walk  round  him,  one  knew  him.  And  then  Chi- 
chester  treated  him  as  the  writer  treats  his  crea- 
tion; he  proceeded  to  show  his  hypocrite  in  action. 

The  man,  happy,  almost  triumphant, —  for  he 
now  often  looked  upon  himself  with  the  eyes  of 
others  who  knew  him  not, —  was  walking  to  his 
home  on  a  winter's  evening  along  a  country  road, 
passing  now  and  then  rustics  who  respectfully 
saluted  him,  neighbors  who  grasped  his  hand,  chil- 
dren who  innocently  smiled  at  him,  women  who 

104 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

whispered  that  he  was  a  fine  fellow,  the  clergy- 
man of  his  parish,  who  gave  him  God-speed  upon 
his  way  as  to  one  who  deserved  that  God  should 
speed  him  because  his  way  was  right.  Snow  was 
upon  the  ground.  Such  light  as  there  was  began 
to  fade.  It  was  evident  that  the  night,  which  was 
very  still,  was  going  to  be  very  dark.  And  the 
man  stepped  out  briskly.  Presently,  at  a  lonely 
part  of  the  road,  happening  to  look  down,  he  saw 
footprints  in  the  freshly  fallen  snow.  They  were 
of  feet  that  had  recently  passed  on  the  way  he  was 
following.  They  had  attracted,  they  continued  to 
attract,  his  attention,  he  knew  not  why.  And  as 
he  went  on,  his  eyes  were  often  upon  them, 

Presently  he  began  to  wonder  about  the  feet 
which  had  made  the  prints  he  saw.  Did  they  be- 
long to  a  man  or  a  woman  The  prints  were  too 
large  to  have  been  made  by  the  feet  of  a  child. 
He  gazed  at  them  searchingly,  and  made  up  his 
mind  that  it  was  a  man  who  had  recently  trodden 
this  road.  And  what  sort  of  man  was  it  that  thus 
preceded  him  not  very  far  away?  He  became 
deeply  engrossed  with  this  question.  His  mind 
revolved  about  this  unknown  traveler,  floating  for- 
ward in  surmises,  till,  by  chance,  he  happened  to 
set  his  right  foot  in  one  of  the  prints  left  in  the 
snow.  His  foot  exactly  filled  it.  This  fact,  he 

105 


THE  DWELLER 

knew  not  why,  startled  him.  He  stopped,  bent 
down,  examined  the  snow  closely,  measured  very 
carefully  his  feet  with  the  prints  before  him,  now 
rather  faintly  discerned  in  the  gathering  darkness. 
The  prints  might  have  been  made  by  his  own  feet. 
Having  ascertained  this,  and  reflected  for  a  mo- 
ment, he  went  forward,  now  assailed  by  a  growing 
curiosity  as  to  the  personality  and  character  of  the 
stranger.  But  perhaps  he  was  not  a  stranger. 
He  might  surely  well  be  a  neighbor,  an  acquaint- 
ance, perhaps  even  a  friend.  The  man  meant, 
if  possible,  to  come  up  with  him,  whoever  he  was, 
and  he  now  hurried  along  with  the  intention  of 
joining  the  unknown  whose  footprints  were  the 
same  as  his  own. 

At  this  point  in  his  sermon  Chichester  paused 
for  a  moment.  And  Mailing,  who  seldom  felt 
any  thrill  at  a  seance,  and  who  had  often  remained 
calmly  watchful  and  alert  during  manifestations 
which  amazed  or  terrified  others,  was  aware  of  a 
feeling  of  cold,  which  seemed  to  pass  like  a  breath 
through  his  spirit.  The  congregation  about  him, 
perhaps  struck  by  the  unusual  form  of  the  sermon, 
remained  silent  and  motionless,  waiting.  In  his 
stall  sat  the  rector  with  downcast  eyes.  Mailing 
could  not  at  that  moment  discern  his  expression. 
His  large  figure  and  important  powerful  head  and 

106 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

face  showed  almost  like  those  of  a  carven  effigy 
in  the  lowered  light  of  the  chancel.  The  choir- 
boys did  not  stir,  and  the  small,  fair  man  in  the 
pulpit,  raising  his  thin  hands,  and  resting  them 
on  the  marble  ledge,  continued  quietly,  taking  up 
his  sermon  with  a  repetition  of  the  last  words 
uttered,  "  whose  footprints  were  the  same  as  his 
own." 

Again  the  cold  breath  went  through  Mailing's 
spirit.  He  leaned  slightly  forward  and  gazed  at 
Chichester. 

For  some  time  the  man  thus  went  onward,  fol- 
lowing the  footprints  in  the  snow,  but  not  overtak- 
ing any  one,  and  becoming  momentarily  more 
eager  to  satisfy  his  curiosity.  Then,  on  a  sudden, 
he  started,  stopped,  and  listened.  It  had  now 
become  very  dark,  and  in  this  darkness,  and  the 
great  stillness  of  night,  he  heard  the  faint  sound 
of  a  footfall  before  him,  brushing  through  the 
crisp  snow,  which  lay  lightly,  and  not  very  deep, 
on  the  hard  highroad  leading  to  the  village  on  the 
farther  outskirts  of  which  his  house  was  situated. 
He  could  not  yet  see  any  one,  but  he  felt  sure 
that  the  person  who  made  this  faint  sound  was 
no  other  than  he  in  whose  steps  he  had  been  tread- 
ing. It  would  now  be  a  matter  of  only  a  minute 
or  two  to  come  up  with  him.  And  the  man  went 

107 


THE  DWELLER 

on,  but  more  slowly,  whether  because  he  was  now 
certain  of  attaining  his  object  or  for  some  other 
reason. 

The  sound  of  the  footfall  persisted,  and  was 
certainly  not  far  off.  The  prints  in  the  snow  were 
so  fresh  that  they  seemed  not  quite  motionless, 
as  if  the  snow  were  only  now  settling  after  the 
pressure  it  had  just  suffered.  The  man  slackened 
his  pace.  He  did  not  like  the  sound  which  he 
heard.  He  began  to  feel  as  if  he  by  whom  it  was 
made  would  not  prove  a  companion  to  his  taste. 
Yet  his  curiosity  continued.  There  began  within 
him  a  struggle  between  his  curiosity  and  another 
sensation,  which  was  of  repugnance,  almost  of 
fear.  And  so  equal  were  the  combatants  that  the 
lights  of  the  village  were  in  sight,  and  he  had  not 
decreased  the  distance  between  himself  and  the 
other.  Seeing  the  lights,  however,  his  curiosity 
got  the  upper  hand.  He  slightly  quickened  his 
pace,  and  almost  immediately  beheld  the  shape  of 
a  man  relieved  against  the  night,  and  treading 
onward  through  the  snow.  And  as  the  sound  of 
the  footsteps  had  been  disagreeable  to  his  nerves, 
so  the  contours  of  the  moving  blackness  repelled 
him.  He  did  not  like  the  look  of  this  man  whose 
footprints  were  the  same  as  his  own,  and  he  de- 
cided not  to  join  him.  But,  moving  rather  cau- 

108 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

tiously,  he  gained  a  little  upon  him,  in  order  to 
make  sure,  if  possible,  whether  or  not  he  was  a 
neighbor  or  an  acquaintance. 

The  figure  seemed  somehow  familiar  to  our  man, 
indeed,  oddly  familiar.  Nevertheless,  he  was  una- 
ble to  identify  it.  As  he  followed  it,  more  and 
more  certain  did  he  become  that  he  had  seen  it,  that 
he  knew  it.  And  yet  —  did  he  know  it?  Had  he 
seen  it?  It  was  almost  as  if  one  part  of  him 
denied  while  the  other  affirmed.  He  longed,  yet 
feared,  to  see  the  face.  But  the  face  never  looked 
back.  And  so,  one  at  a  little  distance  behind  the 
other,  they  came  into  the  village. 

Here  a  strange  thing  occurred. 

There  were  very  few  people  about,  but  there 
were  a  few,  and  two  or  three  of  them,  meeting 
the  person  our  man  was  following,  greeted  him 
respectfully.  But  these  same  people,  when  imme- 
diately afterward  they  encountered  the  other,  who 
had  known  them  for  years,  and  whom  they  of 
course  knew,  showed  the  greatest  perturbation; 
one,  a  woman,  even  signs  of  terror.  They  gave 
him  no  greeting,  shrank  from  him  as  he  passed, 
and  stared  after  him,  as  if  bemused,  when  he  was 
gone  by.  Their  behavior  was  almost  incredible. 
But  he  was  so  set  on  what  was  before  him  that  he 
stopped  to  ask  no  questions. 

109 


THE  DWELLER 

The  village  was  a  long  one.  Always  one  be- 
hind the  other,  walking  at  an  even  pace,  the  two 
men  traversed  it,  approaching  at  last  the  out- 
skirts, where,  separated  from  the  other  habita- 
tions, and  surrounded  by  a  garden  in  which  the 
trees  were  laden  with  snow,  stood  the  house  of  the 
man  who  now  watched  and  followed,  with  a  grow- 
ing wonder  and  curiosity,  combined  with  an  ever- 
growing repugnance,  him  who  made  the  foot- 
prints, who  had  been  saluted  by  the  villagers, 
whose  figure  and  general  aspect  seemed  in  some- 
wise familiar  to  him,  and  yet  whom  he  could  not 
recognize.  Where  could  this  person  be  going? 
The  man  asked  himself,  and  came  to  a  resolve  not 
to  follow  on  into  the  darkness  of  the  open  country, 
not  to  proceed  beyond  his  own  home,  of  which 
now  he  saw  the  lights,  but  to  make  an  effort  to  see 
the  face  of  the  other  before  the  garden  gate  was 
reached. 

In  this  attempt,  however,  he  was  destined  to  be 
frustrated.  For  as  he  determinedly  quickened  his 
steps,  so  did  the  other,  who  gained  the  gate  of  the 
garden,  unlatched  it,  turned  in,  and  walked  on 
among  the  trees  going  toward  the  principal  door. 

A  visitor,  then!  The  man  paused  by  his  gar- 
den gate,  whence  he  could  see  his  house  front, 
with  the  light  from  the  window  of  his  own  sit- 

no 


ting-room  streaming  over  the  porch.  The 
stranger  stood  before  it,  made  a  movement  as  if 
searching  in  his  pocket,  drew  out  his  hand,  lifted 
it.  The  door  opened  at  once.  He  disappeared 
within,  and  the  door  closed  after  him. 

He  had  opened  the  door  with  a  key. 

The  man  at  the  gate  felt  overcome  by  a  sen- 
sation almost  of  horror,  which  he  could  not  ex- 
plain to  himself.  It  was  not  that  he  was  horrified 
by  the  certainly  extraordinary  fact  of  some  one 
possessing  a  key  to  his  house,  and  using  it  in  this 
familiar  fashion.  It  was  not  even  that  he  was 
horrified  at  seeing  a  man,  perhaps  a  stranger, 
disappearing  thus  into  his  home  by  night,  unin- 
vited, unexpected.  What  horrified  him  was  that 
this  particular  man,  whose  footprints  he  had  fol- 
lowed and  measured  with  his  foot,  whose  footfalls 
he  had  heard,  whose  form  he  had  seen  outlined 
against  the  night,  should  be  within  his  house, 
where  his  wife  and  his  children  were,  and  where 
his  venerable  mother  was  sitting  beside  the  fire. 
That  this  man  should  be  there!  He  knew  now 
that  from  the  first  moment  when  he  had  been 
aware  of  his  existence  he  had  hated  him,  that  his 
subconscious  mind  had  hated  him. 

But  who  was  he?  The  natural  thing  would 
have  been  to  follow  quickly  into  the  house,  to  see 

in 


THE  DWELLER 

who  had  entered,  to  demand  an  explanation. 
But  he  could  not  do  this.  Why?  He  himself 
did  not  know  why.  But  he  knew  that  he  dared 
not  do  this.  And  he  waited,  expecting  he  knew 
not  what;  a  cry,  a  summons,  perhaps,  some  mani- 
festation that  would  force  him  to  approach. 

None  came.  Steadily  the  lights  shone  from  the 
house.  There  was  no  sound  but  the  soft  fall  of 
a  block  of  snow  from  an  overladen  fir  branch  in 
the  garden.  The  man  began  to  marvel.  Who 
could  this  be  whose  familiar  entry  into  his  —  his 
home  thus  at  night  caused  no  disturbance  ?  There 
were  dogs  within:  they  had  not  barked.  There 
were  servants:  apparently  they  had  not  stirred. 
It  was  almost  as  if  this  stranger's  permanence  was 
accepted  by  the  household.  A  long,  long  time 
had  slipped  by. 

The  man  at  length,  making  an  almost  fierce 
effort,  partly  dominated  the  unreasoning  sense  of 
horror  which  possessed  him.  He  opened  the 
gate,  stepped  into  the  garden,  and  made  his  way 
slowly  and  softly  toward  the  house  door.  But 
suddenly  he  stopped.  Through  the  unshuttered 
window  of  his  sitting-room,  the  room  in  which  for 
years  he  had  spent  much  of  his  time,  in  which  he 
had  concocted  many  schemes  to  throw  dust  in  the 
eyes  of  his  neighbors,  and  even  of  his  own  rela- 

112 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD   . 

tives,  in  which  he  had  learned  very  perfectly  to 
seem  what  he  was  not,  and  to  hide  what  he  really 
was,  he  perceived  the  figure  of  a  man.  It  crossed 
the  lighted  space  slowly,  and  disappeared  with  a 
downward  movement.  He  knew  it  was  the  man 
he  had  been  following  and  whom  he  had  seen  enter 
his  house. 

For  a  long  while  he  remained  where  he  was  on 
the  path  of  the  garden.  The  night  deepened 
about  him.  A  long  way  off,  at  the  other  end  of 
the  village,  a  clock  chimed  the  hours.  In  the  cot- 
tages the  lights  were  extinguished.  The  few 
loungers  disappeared  from  the  one  long  street  van- 
ishing over  the  snow.  And  the  man  never  moved. 
A  numb  terror  possessed  him.  Yet,  despite  his 
many  faults  and  his  life  of  evil,  he  had  never 
been  physically  a  coward.  Always  the  light  shone 
steadily  from  the  window  of  his  study,  making  a 
patch  of  yellow  upon  the  snow.  Always  the  occu- 
pant of  the  room  must  be  seated  tranquilly  there, 
like  an  owner.  For  no  figure  had  risen,  had  re- 
passed  across  the  unshuttered  space. 

The  man  told  himself  again  and  again  that  he 
must  go  forward  till  he  gained  the  window,  that 
he  must  at  least  look  into  the  room;  if  he  dared 
not  enter  the  house  to  confront  the  intruder,  to 
demand  an  explanation.  But  again  and  again 
8  113 


THE  DWELLER 

something  within  him,  which  seemed  to  be  a  voice 
from  the  innermost  chamber  of  his  soul,  whis- 
pered to  him  not  to  go,  whispered  to  him  to 
leave  the  intruder  alone,  to  let  the  intruder  do  what 
he  would,  but  not  to  approach  him,  above  all,  not 
to  look  upon  his  face.  And  the  man  obeyed  the 
voice  till  a  thing  happened  which  roused  in  him 
a  powerful  beast,  called  by  many  the  natural 
man. 

He  saw  his  wife,  whom  he  loved  in  his  way, 
though  he  had  tricked  and  deceived  her  again  and 
again,  cross  the  window  space,  smiling,  and  dis- 
appear with  a  downward  movement,  as  the  other 
had  disappeared.  Then  she  rose  into  his  range  of 
vision,  and  stood  for  a  moment  so  that  he  could 
see  her  clearly,  smiling,  talking,  making  little  ges- 
tures that  he  knew,  carrying  her  hand  to  her  face, 
stretching  it  out,  dropping  it.  Finally  she  lifted  it 
to  her  lips,  half-closing  her  eyes  at  the  same  time, 
took  it  away  quickly,  with  a  sort  of  butterfly  mo- 
tion, and  vanished,  going  toward  the  left,  where 
the  room  door  was. 

So  had  she  many  and  many  a  time  bidden  him, 
her  husband,  good  night.  Instantly,  with  an  im- 
pulse which  seemed  combined  of  rage  and  terror, 
both  now  full  of  a  driving  force  which  was  irre- 
sistible, the  man  sprang  forward  to  the  window, 

114 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

seized  the  stone  coping  with  his  hands  and  stared 
into  his  room. 

Seated  in  a  round  chair  at  his  writing-table, 
by  a  lamp  with  a  green  shade,  was  the  man  who 
had  entered  his  house.  He  was  writing  busily  in 
a  book  with  a  silver  clasp  that  could  be  locked 
with  a  key,  and  he  leaned  a  little  over  the  table 
with  his  head  turned  away.  The  shape  of  his 
head,  his  posture,  even  the  manner  in  which  he 
used  his  pen  as  he  traced  line  after  line  in  the 
book,  made  an  abominable  impression  upon  the 
man  staring  in  at  the  window.  But  the  face  — 
the  face  !  He  must  see  that !  And  he  leaned  for- 
ward, trembling,  but  fiercely,  and,  pressing  his  own 
face  against  the  pane,  he  looked  at  the  occupant 
of  his  room  as  men  look  sometimes  with  their 
souls. 

The  man  at  the  table  lifted  his  head.  He  laid 
down  the  pen,  blotted  the  book  in  which  he  had 
been  writing,  shut  it  up,  clasped  it,  locked  it  with 
a  tiny  key,  and  put  it  carefully  into  a  drawer  of 
the  table,  which  also  he  locked.  He  got  up,  stood 
for  an  instant  by  the  table  with  one  hand  upon  it, 
then  turned  slowly  toward  the  window,  smiling, 
as  men  smile  to  themselves  when  they  are  thinking 
of  their  own  ingenuities. 

The  man  outside  the  window  fell  back  into  the 


THE  DWELLER 

snow  as  if  God's  hand  had  touched  him.  He 
had  seen  his  own  face!  So  he  smiled  sometimes 
at  the  end  of  a  day,  when  he  had  finished  writing 
down  in  his  diary  some  of  the  hidden  things  of 
his  life. 

He  turned,  and  as  the  window  through  which 
he  had  been  looking  suddenly  darkened,  he  fled 
away  into  the  night. 

When  the  lights,  which  at  St.  Joseph's  were 
always  kept  lowered  during  the  sermon,  once  more 
strongly  illuminated  the  chancel,  Mr.  Harding 
turned  a  ghastly  face  toward  the  pulpit.  In  the 
morning  Chichester  had  listened  to  him,  as  a  man 
of  truth  might  listen  to  a  man  who  is  trying 
to  lie,  but  who  cannot  deceive  him.  In  the  even- 
ing Mr.  Harding  had  listened  to  Chichester  — 
how?  What  had  been  the  emotions  only  shad- 
owed faintly  forth  in  that  ghastly  face  ? 

When  Mailing  got  home,  he  asked  himself  why 
Chichester  had  made  such  an  impression  upon  his 
mind.  His  story  of  the  double,  strange  enough, 
no  doubt,  in  a  sermon,  could  not  surely  have  come 
upon  Mailing  with  any  of  the  force  and  the  in- 
terest of  the  new.  For  years  he  had  been  familiar 
with  tales  of  ghosts,  of  voices,  of  appearances  at 
the  hour  of  death,  of  doubles.  Of  course  in  the 
sermon  there  had  been  a  special  application  of  the 

116 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

story.  It  had  been  very  short.  Chichester  had 
suggested  that  if,  as  by  a  miracle,  the  average  self- 
contented  man  could  look  at  himself  with  the  eyes 
of  his  soul  full  of  subliminal  self-knowledge  and 
with  the  bodily  eyes,  he  would  be  stricken  down  by 
a  great  horror. 

And  he  had  spoken  as  a  man  who  knew.  In- 
deed, it  seemed  to  Mailing  that  he  had  spoken  as 
might  have  delivered  himself  the  man  who  had 
followed  his  double  through  the  snow,  who  had 
looked  in  upon  him  by  night  from  the  garden,  if  he 
had  faced,  instead  of  flying  from,  the  truth;  if 
he  had  stayed,  if  he  had  persistently  watched  his 
double  leading  the  life  he  had  led,  if  he  had 
learned  a  great  lesson  that  perhaps  only  his  double 
could  teach  him. 

But  if  the  man  had  stayed,  what  would  have 
been  the  effect  on  the  double?  Mailing  sat  till 
deep  in  the  night  pondering  these  things. 


117 


VII 


LADY  SOPHIA  had  said  to  Mailing  that  if  he 
went  to  the  two  services  at  St.  Joseph's  on 
the  Sunday  she  would  invite  him  to  see  her  again. 
She  was  as  good  as  her  word.  In  the  middle  of 
the  week  he  received  a  note  from  her,  saying 
she  would  be  at  home  at  four  on  Thursday,  if  he 
was  able  to  come.  He  went,  and  found  her  alone. 
But  as  soon  as  he  entered  the  drawing-room  and 
had  taken  her  hand,  she  said: 

"  I  am  expecting  Mr.  Chichester  almost  imme- 
diately. He  's  coming  to  tea." 

"  I  shall  be  glad  to  meet  him,"  said  Mailing, 
concealing  his  surprise,  which  was  great. 

Yet  he  did  not  know  why  it  should  be.  For 
what  more  natural  than  that  Chichester  should  be 
coming? 

"  I  heard  of  you  at  St.  Joseph's,"  Lady  Sophia 
continued.  "  A  friend  of  mine,  Lily  Armitage, 
saw  you  there.  I  did  n't.  I  was  sitting  at  the 
back.  I  have  taken  to  sitting  quite  at  the  back  of 
the  church.  What  did  you  think  of  it?  " 

118 


THE  DWELLER 

"  Do  you  wish  me  to  be  frank,  and  do  you  mean 
the  two  sermons?  " 

She  hesitated  for  an  instant.     Then  she  said: 

"  I  do  mean  the  sermons,  and  I  do  wish  you  to 
be  frank." 

"  I  thought  Mr.  Chichester's  sermon  very  re- 
markable indeed." 

"  And  my  husband's  sermon?  " 

Her  lips  twisted  almost  as  if  with  contempt 
when  she  said  the  words,  "  my  husband's." 

"  Why  does  n't  Mr.  Harding  take  a  long  rest?  " 
said  Mailing,  speaking  conventionally,  a  thing  that 
he  seldom  did. 

"  You  think  he  needs  one  ?  " 

"  He  has  a  tiresome  malady,  I  understand." 

"What  malady?" 

"  Does  n't  he  suffer  very  much  from  nervous 
dyspepsia  ?  " 

She  looked  at  him  with  irony,  which  changed  al- 
most instantly  into  serious  reflection.  But  the 
irony  returned. 

"  Now  and  then  he  has  a  touch  of  it,"  she  said, 
"  Very  few  of  us  don't  have  something.  But  we 
have  to  go  on,  and  we  do  go  on,  nevertheless." 

"  I  think  a  wise  doctor  would  probably  order 
your  husband  away,"  said  Mailing,  though  Mr. 

119 


THE  DWELLER 

Harding's  departure  was  the  last  thing  he  desired 
just  then. 

"  Even  if  he  were  ordered  away,  I  don't  know 
that  he  would  go." 

"Why  not?" 

"  I  don't  think  he  would.  I  don't  feel  as  if 
he  could  get  away,"  she  said,  with  what  seemed  to 
Mailing  a  sort  of  odd  obstinacy.  "  In  fact,  I 
know  he  's  not  going,"  she  abruptly  added.  "  I 
have  an  instinct." 

Mailing  felt  sure  that  she  had  considered,  per- 
haps long  before  he  had  suggested  it,  this  very 
project  of  Mr.  Harding's  departure  for  a  while 
for  rest,  and  that  she  had  rejected  it.  Her  words 
recalled  to  his  mind  some  other  words  of  her 
husband,  spoken  in  Mr.  Harding's  study:  "  Surely 
one  ought  to  get  out  of  such  an  atmosphere,  to 
get  out  of  it,  and  to  keep  out  of  it.  But  how 
extraordinary  it  is  the  difficulty  men  have  in  get- 
ting away  from  things  !  " 

Perhaps  Lady  Sophia  was  right.  Perhaps  the 
rector  could  not  get  away  from  the  atmosphere 
which  seemed  to  be  destroying  him. 

"  I  dare  say  he  is  afraid  to  trust  everything  to 
his  curates,"  observed  Mailing,  prosaically. 

"  He  need  n't  be  —  now,"  she  replied. 

In  that  "  now,"  as  she  said  it,  there  lay  surely 
1 20 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

a  whole  history.  Mailing  understood  that  Lady 
Sophia,  suddenly  perhaps,  had  given  her  husband 
up.  Since  Mailing  had  first  encountered  her  she 
had  cried,  "  Le  roi  est  mart!  "  in  her  heart.  The 
way  she  had  just  uttered  the  word  "  now  "  made 
Mailing  wonder  whether  she  was  not  about  to 
utter  the  supplementary  cry,  "  Five  le  roll " 

As  he  looked  at  her,  with  this  wonder  in  his 
mind,  Henry  Chichester  came  into  the  room. 

There  was  an  expression  of  profound  sadness 
on  his  face,  which  seemed  to  dignify  it,  to  make  it 
more  powerful,  more  manly,  than  it  had  been. 
The  choir-boy  look  was  gone.  Mailing  of  course 
knew  how  very  much  expression  can  change  a 
human  being;  nevertheless,  he  was  startled  by  the 
alteration  in  the  curate's  outward  man.  It  seemed, 
to  use  the  rector's  phrase,  that  he  had  "shed  his 
character."  And  now,  perhaps,  the  new  charac- 
ter, mysteriously  using  matter  as  the  vehicle  of  its 
manifestation,  was  beginning  to  appear  to  the  eyes 
of  men.  He  showed  no  surprise  at  the  sight  of 
Mailing,  but  rather  a  faint,  though  definite,  pleas- 
ure. The  way  in  which  Lady  Sophia  greeted  him 
was  a  revelation  to  Mailing,  and  a  curious  exhibi- 
tion of  feminine  psychology. 

She  looked  up  at  him  from  the  low  chair  in 
which  she  was  sitting,  gave  him  her  left  hand,  and 

121 


THE  DWELLER 

said,  "  Are  you  very  tired?  "  That  was  all.  Yet 
it  would  have  been  impossible  to  express  more 
clearly  a  woman's  mental,  not  affectional,  subjuga- 
tion by  a  man,  her  instinctive  yielding  to  power, 
her  respect  for  authority,  her  recognition  that  the 
master  of  her  master  had  come  into  the  room. 

Her  "  Vive  le  roi!  "  was  said. 

Chichester  accepted  Lady  Sophia's  subtle 
homage  with  an  air  of  unconsciousness.  His  in- 
terior melancholy  seemed  to  lift  him  above  the 
small  things  that  flatter  small  men.  He  acknowl- 
edged that  he  was  tired,  and  would  be  glad  of  tea. 
He  had  been  down  in  the  East  End.  The  rector 
had  asked  him  to  talk  over  something  with  Mr. 
Carlile  of  the  Church  Army. 

'  You  mean  that  you  suggested  to  the  rector 
that  it  would  be  wise  to  see  Mr.  Carlile,"  said 
Lady  Sophia. 

"  Is  the  rector  coming  in  to  tea  ?  "  asked  Chi- 
chester. 

"  Possibly  he  may,"  she  replied.  "  He  knew 
Mr.  Mailing  was  to  be  here.  Did  you  tell  him 
you  were  coming?  " 

"  No.  I  was  not  certain  I  should  get  away  in 
time." 

"  I  think  he  will  probably  turn  up." 

A  footman  brought  in  tea  at  this  moment,  and 

122 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

Mailing  told  the  curate  he  had  heard  him  preach 
in  the  evening  of  last  Sunday. 

"  It  was  a  deeply  interesting  sermon,"  he  said. 
'  Thank  you,"  said  Chichester,  very  imper- 
sonally. 

The  footman  went  away,  and  Lady  Sophia 
began  to  make  tea. 

"  When  I  went  home,"  Mailing  continued,  "  I 
sat  up  till  late  thinking  it  over.  Part  of  it  sug- 
gested to  my  mind  one  or  two  rather  curious  specu- 
lations." 

'Which  part?"  asked  Lady  Sophia,  dipping 
a  spoon  into  a  silver  tea-caddy. 

'  The  part  about  the  man  and  his  double." 

She  shivered,  and  some  of  the  tea  with  which 
she  had  just  filled  the  spoon  was  shaken  out  of  it 

'  That  was  terrible,"  she  said. 

"  What  were  your  speculations?  "  said  Chiches- 
ter, showing  a  sudden  and  definite  waking  up  of 
keen  interest. 

"  One  of  them  was  this  — " 

Before  he  could  continue,  the  door  opened 
again,  and  the  tall  and  powerful  form  of  the  rector 
appeared.  And  as  the  outer  man  of  Chichester 
seemed  to  Mailing  to  have  begun  subtly  to  change, 
in  obedience  surely  to  the  change  of  his  inner  man, 
so  seemed  Mr.  Harding  a  little  altered  physically, 

123 


THE  DWELLER 

as  he  now  slowly  came  forward  to  greet  his  wife's 
two  visitors.  The  power  of  his  physique  seemed 
to  be  struck  at  by  something  within,  and  to  be 
slightly  marred.  One  saw  that  largeness  can  be- 
come but  a  wide  surface  for  the  tragic  exhibition 
of  weakness.  As  the  rector  perceived  the  presence 
of  Chichester,  an  expression  of  startled  pain  fled 
over  his  face  and  was  gone  in  an  instant.  He 
greeted  the  two  men  and  sat  down. 

"  Have  you  just  begun  tea?  "  he  asked,  looking 
now  at  his  wife. 

"  We  are  just  going  to  begin  it,"  she  replied. 
"  We  are  talking  about  the  sermon  of  last  Sun- 
day." 

"  Oh,"  rejoined  the  rector. 

He  turned  to  Mailing. 

"  Did  you  come  to  hear  me  preach  again?  " 

There  was  a  note  as  of  slight  reassurance  in  his 
voice. 

"  Mr.  Chichester's  sermon,"  said  Lady  Sophia. 

"  Oh,  I  see,"  said  the  rector.  He  glanced 
hastily  from  one  to  the  other  of  the  three  people 
in  the  room,  like  a  man  searching  for  sympathy 
or  help.  "  What  were  you  saying  about  our 
friend  Chichester's  sermon?"  he  asked,  with  a 
forced  air  of  interest. 

Lady  Sophia  distributed  cups  for  tea. 
124 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

"  I  was  speaking  of  that  part  of  it  which  dealt 
with  the  man  who  followed  his  double,"  said  Mai- 
ling. 

"Ah?  "  said  the  rector. 

He  was  holding  his  tea-cup.  His  hand  trem- 
bled slightly  at  this  moment,  and  the  china  rattled. 
He  set  the  cup  down  on  the  small  table  before 
him. 

'  You  said,"  observed  Chichester  —  toward 
whom  Lady  Sophia  immediately  turned,  with  an 
almost  rapt  air  — "  that  it  suggested  some  curious 
speculations  to  your  mind.  I  should  very  much 
like  to  know  what  they  were." 

"  One  was  this.  Suppose  the  man  in  the  gar- 
den, who  looked  in  upon  his  double,  had  not  fled 
away.  Suppose  he  had  had  the  courage  to  re- 
main, and,  in  hiding  —  for  the  sake  of  argument 
we  may  assume  the  situation  to  be  possible  — " 

"Ah,  indeed!  And  why  not?"  interrupted 
Chichester. 

His  voice,  profoundly  melancholy,  fell  like  a 
weight  upon  those  who  heard  him.  And  again 
Mailing  thought  of  him  almost  as  some  one  set 
apart  from  his  fellows  by  some  mysterious  knowl- 
edge, some  heavy  burthen  of  truth. 

" —  and  in  hiding  had  watched  the  life  of  his 
double.  I  sat  up  speculating  what  effect  such  an 

125 


THE  DWELLER 

observation,  terrible  no  doubt  and  grotesque, 
would  be  likely  to  have  on  the  soul  of  the  watch- 
ing man.  But  there  was  another  speculation  with 
which  I  entertained  my  mind  that  night." 

"  Let  us  have  it,"  said  Chichester,  leaning  for- 
ward, and,  with  the  gesture  characteristic  of  him, 
dropping  his  hands  down  between  his  knees. 
"  Let  us  have  it." 

"  Suppose  the  man  to  remain  and,  in  hiding,  to 
watch  the  life  of  his  double,  what  effect  would 
such  an  observation  be  likely  to  have  upon  the 
double?" 

Mailing  paused.  The  rector,  with  an  almost 
violent  movement  of  his  big  hand  and  arm,  took 
his  cup  from  the  table  and  drank  his  tea. 

"  It  did  n't  occur  to  you,  I  suppose,  when  com- 
posing your  sermon  to  follow  that  train  of 
thought?"  said  Mailing  to  Chichester. 

"  No,"  replied  the  curate,  slowly,  and  like  one 
thinking  profoundly.  "  I  was  too  engrossed  with 
the  feelings  of  the  man.  But,  then,  you  thought 
of  the  double  as  a  living  man,  with  all  the  sensa- 
tions of  a  man?  " 

'  That  was  your  fault,"  said  Mailing. 

"  His  fault !  "  said  Lady  Sophia,  with  a  sort  of 
latent  sharpness,  and  laying  an  emphasis  on  the 
second  word. 

126 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

"  Certainly ;  for  making  the  narrative  so  vital 
and  human." 

He  addressed  himself  again  to  the  curate. 

"  Did  you  not  give  to  the  double  the  attributes 
of  a  man?  Did  you  not  make  his  wife  come  to 
bid  him  good  night,  bend  down  to  kiss  him,  waft 
him  a  characteristic  farewell?" 

"  It  is  true.  I  did,"  said  Chichester,  still  speak- 
ing like  a  man  in  deep  thought. 

'*  That  was  the  most  terrible  part  of  all,"  said 
Lady  Sophia.  In  her  voice  there  was  an  accent 
almost  of  horror.  "  It  sickened  me  to  the  soul," 
she  continued  — "  the  idea  of  a  woman  bidding  a 
tender  good  night  to  an  apparition." 

"  I  took  it  as  a  man,"  said  Mailing. 

They  had  all  three,  strangely,  left  the  rector  out 
of  this  discussion,  and  he  seemed  willing  that  it 
should  be  so.  He  now  sat  back  in  his  chair  listen- 
ing to  all  that  was  being  said,  somewhat  as  he  had 
listened  to  the  sermon  of  Chichester,  in  a  sort  of 
ghastly  silence. 

"  How  could  a  man's  double  be  a  man  ?  "  said 
Lady  Sophia. 

"  We  are  in  the  region  of  assumption  and  of 
speculation,"  returned  Mailing,  quietly,  "  a  not 
uninteresting  region  either,  I  think.  The  other 
night  for  a  whole  hour,  having  assumed  the  double 

127 


THE  DWELLER 

man,  I  speculated  on  his  existence,  spied  upon  by 
his  other  self.  And  you  never  did  that?  " 

He  looked  at  Chichester. 

"  When  I  was  making  my  sermon  I  was  en- 
grossed by  the  thought  of  the  watching  man." 

Mailing's  idea  had  evidently  laid  a  grip  upon 
Chichester's  mind. 

"  Tell  me  what  the  double's  existence  would  be, 
according  to  you,"  he  said.  u  Tell  me." 

"You  imagined  the  lesson  learnt  by  the  man 
so  terrible  that  he  fled  away  into  the  night." 

"  Yes." 

"  Had  he  been  strong  enough  to  stay  — " 

"  Strong  enough ! "  interposed  Chichester. 
"  Better  say,  had  he  been  obliged  to  stay." 

"  Very  well.  Given  that  compulsion,  in  my 
imagination  the  double  must  have  learnt  a  lesson, 
too.  If  we  can  learn  by  contemplation,  can  we 
not,  must  we  not,  learn  by  being  contemplated? 
Life  is  permeated  by  reciprocity.  I  can  imagine 
another  sermon  growing  out  of  yours  of  last  Sun- 
day." 

"  Yes,  you  are  right  —  you  are  right,"  said  Chi- 
chester. 

"  The  double,  then,  in  my  imagination,  would 
gradually  become  uneasy  under  this  secret  obser- 
vation. You  described  him  as,  his  wife  gone,  sit- 

128 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

ting  down  comfortably  to  write  some  account  of 
the  hidden  doings  of  his  life,  as,  the  writing  fin- 
ished, the  diary  committed  to  the  drawer  and  safely 
locked  away,  rising  up  to  go  to  rest  with  a  smile 
of  self-satisfaction.  It  seemed  to  me  that,  given 
my  circumstance  of  the  persistent  observation,  a 
few  nights  later  matters  would  have  been  very  dif- 
ferent within  that  room.  The  hypocrite  is  happy, 
if  he  is  happy  at  all,  when  he  is  convinced  that  his 
hypocrisy  is  successful.  Take  away  that  certainty, 
and  he  would  be  invaded  by  anxiety.  Set  any  one 
to  watch  him  closely,,  he  would  certainly  suffer,  if 
he  knew  it." 

"  If  he  knew  it !  That  is  the  point,"  said  Chi- 
chester.  "  You  put  the  man  watching  the  double 
in  hiding." 

;t  There  are  influences  not  yet  fully  understood 
which  can  traverse  space,  which  can  touch  not  as 
a  hand  touches,  but  as  unmistakably.  I  imagined 
the  soul  of  the  double  touched  in  this  way,  the 
waters  troubled." 

"Troubled!     Troubled!" 

It  was  Mr.  Harding  who  had  spoken,  almost 
lamentably.  His  powerfully  shaped  head  now 
drooped  forward  on  his  breast. 

"  I  imagined,"  continued  Mailing,  "  a  sort  of 
gradual  disintegration  beginning,  and  proceeding, 
9  129 


THE  DWELLER 

in  the  double  —  a  disintegration  of  the  soul,  if 
such  a  thing  can  be  conceived  of." 

His  piercing  eyes  went  from  Chichester  to 
Harding. 

"  Or,  no,"  he  corrected  himself.  "  Perhaps 
that  is  an  incorrect  description  of  my  —  very  im- 
aginative —  flight  through  speculation  the  other 
night.  Possibly  I  should  say  a  gradual  transfer- 
ence, instead  of  disintegration  of  soul.  For  it 
seemed  to  me  as  if  the  man  who  watched  might 
gradually,  as  it  were,  absorb  into  himself  the  soul  of 
the  double,  but  purified.  For  the  watcher  has  the 
tremendous  advantage  of  seeing  the  hypocrite  liv- 
ing the  hypocrite's  life,  while  the  hypocrite  is  only 
seen.  Might  not  the  former,  therefore,  conceiv- 
ably draw  in  strength,  while  the  other  faded  into 
weakness?  Ignorance  is  the  terrible  thing  in  life, 
I  think.  Now  the  man  who  watched  would  re- 
ceive knowledge,  fearful  knowledge,  but  the  man 
who  was  watched,  while  perhaps  suffering  first 
uneasiness,  then  possibly  even  terror,  would  not, 
in  my  conception,  ever  clearly  understand.  He 
would  not  any  longer  dare  at  night  to  sit  down 
alone  to  fill  up  that  dreadful  diary.  He  would 
not  any  longer  perhaps  —  I  only  say  perhaps  — 
dare  to  commit  the  deeds  the  record  of  which  in 
the  past  the  diary  held.  But  his  lesson  would  be 

130 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

one  of  fear,  making  for  weakness,  finally  almost 
for  nothingness.  And  the  other  night  I  con- 
ceived of  him  at  last  fading  away  in  the  gloom  of 
his  room  with  the  darkened  window." 

'That  was  your  end!  "  said  Mr.  Harding,  in 
a  low  voice. 

'  Yes,  that  was  my  end." 

'  Then,"  said  Chichester,  "  you  think  the  lesson 
men  learn  from  being  contemplated  tends  only  to 
destroy  them?  " 

But  Mailing,  now  with  a  smiling  change  to 
greater  lightness  and  ease,  hastened  to  traverse 
this  statement. 

"  No,  no,"  he  replied.  "  For  the  contempla- 
tion of  a  man  by  his  fellow-men  must  always  be 
an  utterly  different  thing  from  his  own  contempla- 
tion by  himself.  For  our  fellow-men  always  re- 
main in  a  very  delightful  ignorance  of  us.  Don't 
they,  Lady  Sophia?  And  so  they  can  never  de- 
stroy us,  luckily  for  us." 

He  had  done  what  he  wished  to  do,  and  he  was 
now  ready  for  other  activities.  But  he  found  it 
was  not  easy  to  switch  his  companions  off  onto 
another  trail.  Lady  Sophia,  now  that  he  looked 
at  her  closely,  he  saw  to  be  under  the  influence  of 
fear,  provoked  doubtless  by  the  subject  they  had 
been  discussing.  Chichester,  also,  had  a  look  as 


THE  DWELLER 

of  fear  in  his  eyes.  As  to  the  rector,  he  sat  gazing 
at  his  curate,  and  there  had  come  upon  his  counte- 
nance an  expression  of  almost  unnatural  resolu- 
tion, such  as  a  coward's  might  wear  if  terror 
forced  him  into  defiance. 

In  reply  to  Mailing's  half-laughing  question, 
Lady  Sophia  said: 

"  You  Ve  studied  all  these  things,  have  n't 
you?" 

"  Do  you  mean  what  are  sometimes  called 
occult  questions?  " 

"  Yes." 

"I  have." 

"  And  do  you  believe  in  them?  " 

"  I  'm  afraid  I  must  ask  you  to  be  a  little  more 
definite." 

"  Do  you  believe  that  there  are  such  things  as 
doubles?" 

"  I  have  no  reason  to  believe  that  there  are,  un- 
less you  include  wrongly  in  the  term  the  merely 
physical  replica.  It  appears  to  be  established  that 
now  and  then  two  human  beings  are  born  who, 
throughout  their  respective  lives  remain  physically 
so  much  alike  that  it  is  difficult,  if  not  impossible, 
to  distinguish  between  them." 

"  I  did  n't  mean  only  that,"  she  said  quickly. 
132 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

4  You  meant  the  double  in  mind  and  soul  as 
well  as  in  body,"  said  Chichester. 

"  Yes." 

"  How  can  one  see  if  a  soul  is  the  double  of  an- 
other soul?  "  said  Mailing. 

"  Then  you  think  such  a  story  as  Mr.  Chiches- 
ter related  in  his  sermon  all  nonsense?  "  said  Lady 
Sophia,  almost  hotly,  and  yet,  it  seemed  to  Mai- 
ling, with  a  slight  lifting  of  the  countenance,  as  if 
relief  perhaps  were  stealing  through  her. 

"  I  thought  it  a  legitimate  and  powerful  inven- 
tion introduced  to  point  a  moral." 

"  Nothing  more  than  that?  "  said  Lady  Sophia. 

Mailing  did  not  reply;  for  suddenly  a  strange 
question  had  risen  up  in  him.  Did  he  really  think 
it  nothing  more  than  that?  He  glanced  at  Chi- 
chester, and  the  curate's  eyes  seemed  asking  him 
to  say. 

The  rector's  heavy  and  powerful  frame  shifted 
in  his  chair,  and  his  voice  was  heard  saying: 

"  My  dear  Sophy,  I  think  you  had  better  leave 
such  things  alone.  You  do  not  know  where  they 
might  lead  you." 

There  was  in  his  voice  a  sound  of  forced  author- 
ity, as  if  he  had  been  obliged  to  "  screw  himself 
up  "  to  speak  as  he  had  just  spoken.  Lady  Sophia 

133 


THE  DWELLER 

was  about  to  make  a  quick  rejoinder  when,  still 
with  a  forced  air  of  resolution,  Mr.  Harding  ad- 
dressed himself  to  Chichester. 

"  Since  I  saw  you  this  morning,"  he  said,  "  I 
find  that  I  shall  not  be  here  next  Sunday." 

He  looked  about  the  circle  at  his  wife  and  Mai- 
ling. 

"  The  doctor  has  ordered  me  away  for  a  week, 
and  I  Ve  decided  to  go." 

His  introduction  of  the  subject  had  been  abrupt. 
As  if  almost  in  despite  of  themselves,  Lady 
Sophia  and  Mailing  exchanged  glances.  Chiches- 
ter said  nothing. 

"  You  can  get  on  without  me  quite  well,  of 
course,"  continued  the  rector.  N 

"  Are  you  going  to  be  away  long?  "  said  Chi- 
chester. 

"No;  I  think  only  for  a  week  or  so.  The 
doctor  says  I  absolutely  need  a  breath  of  fresh  air." 

Mailing  got  up  to  go. 

"  I  hope  you  '11  enjoy  your  little  holiday,"  he 
said.  "  Are  you  going  far?  " 

"  Oh,  dear,  no.  My  doctor  recommends  Tan- 
kerton  on  the  Kentish  coast.  It  seems  the  air 
there  is  extraordinary.  When  the  tide  is  down- it 
comes  off  the  mud  flats.  A  kind  parishioner  of 
mine  — "  he  turned  slightly  toward  his  wife : 

134 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

"  Mrs.  Amherst,  Sophy  —  has  a  cottage  there  and 
has  often  offered  me  the  use  of  it.  I  hope  to 
accept  her  offer  now." 

Lady  Sophia  expressed  no  surprise  at  the  project, 
and  did  not  inquire  whether  her  husband  wished 
her  to  accompany  him. 

But  when  she  shook  hands  with  Mailing,  her 
dark  eyes  seemed  to  say  to  him,  "  I  was  wrong." 

And  he  thought  she  looked  humbled. 


135 


VIII 

you  come  down  stay  with  me  Satur- 
day  till  Monday  all  alone  air  delicious  feel 
rather  solitary  glad  of  your  company  Marcus 
Harding  Minors  Tankerton  Kent." 

Such  was  the  telegram  which  Evelyn  Mailing 
was  considering  on  the  following  Friday  afternoon. 
The  sender  had  paid  an  answer.  The  telegraph- 
boy  was  waiting  in  the  hall.  Mailing  only  kept 
him  five  minutes.  He  went  away  with  this  reply : 

"Accept  with  -pleasure  will  take  four  twenty 
train  at  Victoria  Saturday  Mailing!' 

Mailing  could  not  have  said  with  truth  that  he 
had  expected  a  summons  from  Mr.  Harding,  yet 
he  found  that  he  was  not  surprised  to  get  it.  The 
man  was  in  a  bad  way.  He  needed  sympathy,  he 
needed  help.  That  was  certain.  But  whether  he 
could  help  him  was  more  than  doubtful,  Mailing 
thought.  Perhaps,  really,  a  doctor  and  the  won- 
derful air  from  the  mud  flats  of  Tankerton !  But 
here  Mailing  found  that  a  strong  incredulity 

136 


THE  DWELLER 

checked  him.  He  did  not  believe  that  the  rector 
would  be  restored  by  a  doctor's  advice  and  a  visit 
to  the  sea. 

That  afternoon  he  went  to  Westminster,  and 
asked  for  Professor  Stepton. 

"  He  is  away,  sir,"  said  the  fair  Scotch  parlor- 
maid. 

"For  long?" 

"  We  don't  know,  sir.  He  has  gone  into  Kent, 
on  research  business,  I  believe." 

Agnes  had  been  for  a  long  time  in  the  profes- 
sor's service,  and  was  greatly  trusted.  The  pro- 
fessor had  come  upon  her  originally  when  making 
investigations  into  "  second  sight,"  a  faculty  which 
she  claimed  to  possess.  By  the  way  she  was  also 
an  efficient  parlor-maid. 

"  Kent !  "  said  Mailing.  "  Do  you  know  where 
he  is  staying?  " 

"  The  address  he  left  is  the  Tankerton  Hotel, 
Tankerton,  near  Whitstable-on-Sea,  sir." 

"  Thank  you,  Agnes,"  said  Mailing. 

"  It  is  a  haunted  house  somewhere  Birchmgton 
way  the  professor  is  after,  I  believe,  sir." 

"  Luck  favors  me !  "  said  Mailing  to  himself, 
unscientifically,  as  he  walked  away  from  the  house. 

On  the  following  day  it  was  in  a  singularly  ex- 
pectant and  almost  joyously  alert  frame  of  mind 

137 


THE  DWELLER 

that  he  bought  a  first-class  ticket  for  Whitstable- 
on-Sea,  which  is  the  station  for  Tankerton. 

He  would  involve  Stepton  in  this  affair.  There 
was  a  mystery  in  it.  Mailing  was  now  convinced 
of  that.  And  his  original  supposition  did  not  sat- 
isfy him.  But  perhaps  Mr.  Harding  meant  to 
help  him.  Perhaps  Mr.  Harding  intended  to  be 
explicit.  The  difficulty  there  was  that  he  also  was 
walking  in  darkness,  as  Mailing  believed.  His 
telegram  had  come  like  a  cry  out  of  this  darkness. 

"Faversham!  Faversham!"  the  fair  Kentish 
porters  were  calling.  Only  about  twenty  minutes 
now !  Would  the  rector  be  at  the  station  ? 

He  was.  As  the  train  ran  in  alongside  the 
wooden  platform,  Mailing  caught  sight  of  the 
towering  authoritative  figure.  Was  it  his  fancy 
which  made  him  think  that  it  looked  slightly 
bowed,  even  perhaps  a  little  shrunken? 

"  Good  of  you  to  come!  "  said  the  rector  in  a 
would-be  hearty  voice,  but  also  with  a  genuine 
accent  of  pleasure.  "  All  the  afternoon  I  have 
been  afraid  of  a  telegram." 

14  Why?  "  asked  Mailing,  as  they  shook  hands. 

"  Oh,  when  one  is  anxious  for  a  thing,  one  does 
not  always  get  it.  Ha,  ha !  " 

He  broke  into  a  covering  laugh. 

"  Here  is  a  porter.  You  Ve  only  got  this  bag. 
138 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

Capital !  I  have  a  fly  waiting.  We  go  down 
these  steps." 

As  they  descended,  Mailing  remarked: 

"  By  the  way,  we  have  a  friend  staying  here. 
Have  you  come  across  him  ?  " 

"  No,  I  have  seen  nobody  —  that  is,  no  ac- 
quaintance. Who  is  it?" 

"  Stepton." 

"The  professor  down  here!"  exclaimed  Mr. 
Harding,  as  if  startled. 

"  At  the  hotel,  I  believe.  He  's  come  down  to 
make  some  investigation." 

u  I  have  n't  seen  him." 

They  stepped  into  the  fly,  and  drove  through 
the  long  street  of  Whitstable  toward  the  outlying 
houses  of  Tankerton,  scattered  over  grassy  downs 
above  a  quiet,  brown  sea. 

"  The  air  is  splendid,  certainly,"  observed  Mai- 
ling, drinking  it  in  almost  like  a  gourmet  savoring 
a  wonderful  wine. 

"  It  must  do  me  good.     Don't  you  think  so?  " 

The  question  sounded  anxious  to  Mailing's 
ears. 

"  It  ought  to  do  every  one  good,  I  should  think." 

"  Here  is  Minors." 

The  fly  stopped  before  a  delightfully  gay  little 
red  doll's  house  —  so  Mailing  thought  of  it  — 

139 


THE  DWELLER 

standing  in  a  garden  surrounded  by  a  wooden 
fence,  with  the  downs  undulating  about  it.  Not 
far  off,  but  behind  it,  was  the  sea.  And  the  rector, 
pointing  to  a  red  building  in  the  distance,  on  the 
left  and  much  nearer  to  the  beach,  said: 

"  That  is  the  hotel  where  the  professor  must  be 
staying,  if  he  is  here." 

"  I  '11  go  over  presently  and  ask  about  him." 

"  Oh,"  said  Mr.  Harding.  "  Bring  in  the  bag, 
please,  Jennings.  The  room  on  the  right,  at  the 
top  of  the  stairs." 

Mailing  had  believed  in  London  that  Mr. 
Harding's  telegram  to  him  was  a  cry  out  of  dark- 
ness. That  first  evening  in  the  cheerful  doll's 
house  he  knew  his  belief  was  well  founded. 
When  they  sat  at  dinner,  like  two  monsters,  Mai- 
ling thought,  who  had  somehow  managed  to  insert 
themselves  into  a  doll's  dining-room,  it  was  obvi- 
ous that  the  rector  was  ill  at  ease.  Again  and 
again  he  seemed  to  be  on  the  verge  of  some  re- 
mark, perhaps  of  some  outburst  of  speech,  and  to 
check  himself  only  when  the  words  were  almost 
visibly  trembling  on  his  lips.  In  his  eyes  Mailing 
saw  plainly  his  longing  for  utterance,  his  hesita- 
tion; reserve  and  a  desire  to  liberate  his  soul,  the 
one  fighting  against  the  other.  And  at  moments 
the  whole  man  seemed  to  be  wrapped  in  weakness 

140 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

like  a  garment,  the  soul  and  the  body  of  him. 
Then,  as  a  light  may  dwindle  till  it  seems  certain 
to  go  out,  all  that  was  Marcus  Harding  seemed 
to  Mailing  to  dwindle.  The  large  body,  the  pow- 
erful head  and  face,  meant  little,  almost  nothing, 
because  the  spirit  was  surely  fading.  But  these 
moments  passed.  Then  it  was  as  if  the  light 
flared  suddenly  up  again. 

When  dinner  was  over,  Mr.  Harding  asked 
Mailing  if  he  would  like  to  take  a  stroll. 

'  The  sea  air  will  help  us  to  sleep,"  he  said. 

"  I  should  like  nothing  better,"  said  Mailing. 
"  Have  n't  you  been  sleeping  well  lately?  " 

"  Very  badly.     We  had  better  take  our  coats." 

They  put  the  coats  on,  and  went  out,  making 
their  way  to  the  broad,  grassy  walk  raised  above 
the  shingle  of  the  beach.  The  tide  was  far  down, 
and  the  oozing  flats  were  uncovered.  So  still,  so 
waveless  was  the  brown  water  that  at  this  hour  it 
was  impossible  to  perceive  where  it  met  the  brown 
land.  In  the  distance,  on  the  right,  shone  the 
lights  of  Herne  Bay,  with  its  pier  stretching  far 
out  into  the  shallows.  Away  to  the  left  was  the 
lonely  island  of  Sheppey,  a  dull  shadow  beyond 
the  harbor,  where  the  oyster-boats  lay  at  rest. 
There  were  very  few  people  about:  some  fisher- 
lads  solemnly  or  jocosely  escorting  their  girls,  who 

141 


THE  DWELLER 

giggled  faintly  as  they  passed  Mr.  Harding  and 
Mailing;  two  or  three  shopkeepers  from  Whit- 
stable  taking  the  air;  a  boatman  or  two  vaguely 
hovering,  with  blue  eyes  turned  from  habit  to  the 
offing. 

The  two  men  paced  slowly  up  and  down.  And 
again  Mailing  was  aware  of  words  trembling  upon 
the  rector's  lips  —  words  which  he  could  not  yet 
resolve  frankly  to  utter.  Whether  it  was  the  in- 
fluence of  the  faintly  sighing  sea,  of  the  almost 
sharply  pure  air,  of  the  distant  lights  gleaming 
patiently,  or  whether  an  influence  came  out  from 
the  man  beside  him  and  moved  him,  Mailing  did 
not  know ;  but  he  resolved  to  do  a  thing  quite  con- 
trary to  his  usual  practice.  He  resolved  to  try  to 
force  a  thing  on,  instead  of  waiting  till  it  came 
to  him  naturally.  He  became  impatient,  he  who 
was  generally  a  patient  seeker. 

"  You  remember  our  former  conversations  with 
regard  to  Henry  Chichester?  "  he  said  abruptly, 
changing  the  subject  of  their  discourse. 

"Chichester?     Yes  —  yes.     What    of    him?" 

"  I  wish  to  tell  you  that  I  think  you  are  right, 
that  I  think  there  is  an  extraordinary,  even  an 
amazing,  change  in  Chichester." 

"  There  is,  indeed,"  said  Mr.  Harding.  "  And 
—  and  it  will  increase." 

142 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

He  spoke  with  a  sort  of  despairing  conviction. 

"  What  makes  you  think  so?  " 

"  It  must.     It  cannot  be  otherwise  —  unless  — " 

He  paused. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mailing;  "  unless—" 

"  A  thing  almost  impossible  were  to  happen." 

"  May  I,  without  indiscretion,  ask  what  that 
is?" 

"  Unless  he  were  to  leave  St.  Joseph's,  to  go 
quite  away." 

"  Surely  that  would  not  be  impossible !  " 

"  I  often  think  it  is.  Chichester  will  not  wish 
to  go." 

"  Are  you  certain  of  that?  "  asked  Mailing,  re- 
membering the  curate's  remark  in  Horton  Street, 
that  perhaps  he  would  not  remain  at  St.  Joseph's 
much  longer. 

The  rector  turned  his  head  and  fixed  his  eyes 
upon  Mailing. 

"  Has  he  said  anything  to  you  about  leaving?  " 
he  asked,  suddenly  raising  his  voice,  as  if  under 
the  influence  of  excitement.  "  But  of  course  he 
has  not." 

"  Surely  it  is  probable  that  such  a  man  may  be 
offered  a  living." 

"  He  would  not  take  it." 

They  walked  on  a  few  steps  in  silence,  turned, 

143 


THE  DWELLER 

and  strolled  back.  It  was  now  growing  dark. 
Their  faces  were  set  toward  the  distant  gleam  of 
the  Herne  Bay  lights. 

"  I  am  not  so  sure,"  at  length  dropped  out  Mai- 
ling. 

"  Why  are  you  not  so  sure?  " 

"  Why  do  you  think  Chichester's  departure 
from  St.  Joseph's  impossible?  " 

Mailing  spoke  strongly  to  determine,  if  possible, 
the  rector  to  speak,  to  say  out  all  that  was  in  his 
heart. 

"  Can  I  tell  you?"  Mr.  Harding  almost  mur- 
mured. "Can  I  tell  you?" 

"  I  think  you  asked  me  here  that  you  might  tell 
me  something." 

"  It  is  true.     I  did." 

"  Then  — " 

"  Let  us  sit  down  in  this  shelter.  There  is  no 
one  in  it.  People  are  going  home." 

Mailing  followed  him  into  a  shelter,  with  a 
bench  facing  the  sea. 

"  I  thought  perhaps  here  I  might  be  able  to 
tell  you,"  said  Mr.  Harding.  "  I  am  in  great 
trouble,  Mr.  Mailing,  in  great  trouble.  But  I 
don't  know  whether  you,  or  whether  any  one,  can 
assist  me." 

144 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

"  If  I  may  advise  you,  I  should  say  —  tell  me 
plainly  what  your  trouble  is." 

"  It  began — "  Mr.  Harding  spoke  with  a  fal- 
tering voice  — "  it  began  a  good  while  ago,  some 
months  after  Mr.  Chichester  came  as  a  curate  to 
St.  Joseph's.  I  was  then  a  very  different  man 
from  the  man  you  see  now.  Often  I  feel  really 
as  if  I  were  not  the  same  man,  as  if  I  were  radi- 
cally changed.  It  may  be  health.  I  sometimes 
try  to  think  so.  And  then  I  — "  He  broke  off. 

The  strange  weakness  that  Mailing  had  already 
noticed  seemed  again  to  be  stealing  over  him,  like 
a  mist,  concealing,  attenuating. 

"  Possibly  it  is  a  question  of  health,"  said  Mai- 
ling, rather  sharply.  "  Tell  me  how  it  began." 

"  When  Chichester  first  joined  me,  I  was  a  man 
of  power  and  ambition.  I  was  a  man  who  could 
dominate  others,  and  I  loved  to  dominate." 

His  strength  seemed  returning  while  he  spoke, 
as  if  frankness  were  to  him  a  restorative  of  the 
spirit. 

"  It  was  indeed  my  passion.  I  loved  authority. 
I  loved  to  be  in  command.  I  was  full  of  ecclesi- 
astical ambition.  Feeling  that  I  had  intellectual 
strength,  I  intended  to  rise  to  the  top  of  the 
church,  to  become  a  bishop  eventually,  perhaps 

145 


THE  DWELLER 

even  something  greater.  When  I  was  presented 
to  St.  Joseph's, —  my  wife's  social  influence  had 
something  to  do  with  that, —  I  saw  all  the  gates 
opening  before  me.  I  made  a  great  effect  in  Lon- 
don. I  may  say  with  truth  that  no  clergyman  was 
more  successful  than  I  was  —  at  one  time.  My 
wife  spurred  me  on.  She  was  immensely  ambi- 
tious for  me.  I  must  tell  you  that  in  marrying 
me  she  had  gone  against  all  her  family.  They 
thought  me  quite  unworthy  of  her  notice.  But 
from  the  first  time  I  met  her  I  meant  to  marry  her. 
And  as  I  dominated  others,  I  completely  domi- 
nated her.  But  she,  once  married  to  me,  was  des- 
perately anxious  that  I  should  rise  in  the  world, 
in  order  that  her  choice  of  me  might  be  justified 
in  the  eyes  of  her  people.  You  can  understand  the 
position,  I  dare  say?  " 

"  Perfectly,"  said  Mailing. 

"  I  may  say  that  she  irritated  my  ambition,  that 
she  stung  it  into  almost  a  furious  activity. 
Women  have  great  influence  with  us.  I  thought 
she  was  my  slave  almost,  but  I  see  now  that  she 
also  influenced  me.  She  worshiped  me  for  my 
immediate  success  at  St.  Joseph's.  You  may  think 
it  very  ridiculous,  considering  that  I  am  merely 
the  rector  of  a  fashionable  London  church,  but 
there  was  a  time  when  I  felt  almost  intoxicated  by 

146 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

my  wife's  worship  of  me,  and  by  my  domination 
over  the  crowds  who  came  to  hear  me  preach. 
Domination!  That  was  my  fetish!  That  was 
what  led  me  to  —  oh,  sometimes  I  think  it  must 
end  in  my  ruin !  " 

"  Perhaps  not,"  said  Mailing,  quietly.  "  Let 
us  see." 

His  words,  perhaps  even  more  his  manner, 
seemed  greatly  to  help  Mr.  Harding. 

"  I  will  tell  you  everything,"  he  exclaimed. 
"  From  the  first  I  have  felt  as  if  you  were  the 
man  to  assist  me,  if  any  man  could.  I  had  always, 
since  I  was  an  undergraduate  at  Oxford, —  I  was 
a  Magdalen  man, —  been  interested  in  psychical 
matters,  and  followed  carefully  all  the  proceed- 
ings of  the  Society  for  Psychical  Research.  I  had 
also  at  that  time, —  in  Oxford, — -  made  some  ex- 
periments with  my  college  friends,  chiefly  in  con- 
nection with  will  power.  My  influence  seemed  to 
be  specially  strong.  But  I  need  not  go  into  all 
that.  After  leaving  Oxford  and  taking  orders, 
for  a  long  time  I  gave  such  matters  up.  I  feared, 
if  I  showed  my  strong  interest  in  psychical  re- 
search, especially  if  I  was  known  to  attend  seances 
or  anything  of  that  kind,  it  might  be  considered 
unsuitable  in  a  clergyman,  and  might  injure  my 
prospects.  It  was  not  until  Henry  Chichester 

147 


THE  DWELLER 

came  to  St.  Joseph's  that  I  was  tempted  again  into 
paths  which  I  had  chosen  to  consider  forbidden 
to  me.  Chichester  tempted  me!  Chichester 
tempted  me!  " 

He  spoke  the  last  words  with  a  sort  of  lamen- 
table energy. 

"  Such  a  gentle,  yielding  man  as  he  was!  " 

"  It  was  just  that.  He  came  under  my  influ- 
ence at  once,  and  showed  it  in  almost  all  he  said 
and  did.  He  looked  up  to  me,  he  strove  to  model 
himself  upon  me,  he  almost  worshiped  me.  One 
evening, —  it  was  in  the  pulpit !  —  the  idea  shot 
through  my  brain,  *  I  could  do  what  I  like  with 
that  man,  make  of  him  just  what  I  choose,  use 
him  just  as  I  please.'  And  I  turned  my  eyes  to- 
ward the  choir  where  Chichester  sat  in  the  last 
stall,  hanging  on  my  words.  At  that  instant  I  can 
only  suppose  that  what  people  sometimes  call  the 
maladie  de  grandeur  —  the  mania  for  power  — 
took  hold  upon  me,  and  combined  with  my  furtive 
longing  after  research  in  those  mysterious  regions 
where  perhaps  all  we  desire  is  hidden.  Anyhow, 
at  that  instant  I  resolved  to  try  to  push  my  influ- 
ence over  Chichester  to  its  utmost  limit,  and  by 
illegitimate  means." 

"Illegitimate?" 

"  I  call  them  so.  Yes,  yes,  they  are  not  legiti- 
148 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

mate.  I  know  that  now.  And  he  —  but  I  dare 
not  think  what  he  knows !  " 

The  rector  was  greatly  moved.  He  half  rose 
from  the  bench  on  which  they  were  sitting,  then, 
making  a  strong  effort,  controlled  himself,  sank 
back,  and  continued: 

'*  At  that  time,  in  the  early  days  of  his  associa- 
tion with  me,  Chichester  thought  that  everything 
I  did,  everything  I  suggested,  even  everything  that 
came  into  my  mind,  must  be  good  and  right.  He 
never  dreamed  of  criticizing  me.  In  his  view,  I 
was  altogether  above  criticism.  And  if  I  ap- 
proached him  with  any  sort  of  intimacy  he  was  in 
the  greatest  joy.  You  know,  perhaps,  Mr.  Mai- 
ling, how  the  worshiper  receives  any  confidence 
from  the  one  he  worships.  He  looks  upon  it  as 
the  greatest  compliment  that  can  be  paid  him.  I 
resolved  to  pay  that  compliment  to  Henry  Chi- 
chester. 

"  You  must  know  that  although  I  had  entirely 
given  up  the  occult  practices  —  that  may  not  be 
the  exact  term,  but  you  will  understand  what  I 
mean  —  I  had  indulged  in  at  Oxford,  I  had  never 
relaxed  my  deep,  perhaps  my  almost  morbid  in- 
terest in  the  efforts  that  were  being  made  by  sci- 
entists and  others  to  break  through  the  barrier 
dividing  us  on  earth  from  the  spirit  world.  Al- 

149 


THE  DWELLER 

though  I  had  chosen  the  career  of  a  clergyman, — 
alas !  I  looked  upon  the  church,  I  suppose,  as  little 
more  than  a  career !  —  I  was  not  a  very  faithful 
man.  I  had  many  doubts  which,  as  clergymen 
must,  I  concealed.  By  nature  I  suppose  I  had 
rather  an  incredulous  mind.  Not  that  I  was  a 
skeptic,  but  I  was  sometimes  a  doubter.  Rather 
than  faith,  I  should  have  much  preferred  to  have 
knowledge,  exact  knowledge.  Often  I  even  felt 
ironical  when  confronted  with  the  simple  faith  we 
clergymen  should  surely  encourage,  sustain,  and 
humbly  glory  in,  whereas  with  skepticism,  even 
when  openly  expressed,  I  always  felt  some  part  of 
myself  to  be  in  secret  sympathy.  I  continued  to 
study  works,  both  English  and  foreign,  on  psy- 
chical research.  I  followed  the  experiments  of 
Lodge,  William  James,  and  others.  Myers's 
great  work  on  human  personality  was  forever  at 
my  elbow.  And  the  longer  I  was  debarred  — 
self-debarred  because  of  my  keen  ambition  and 
my  determination  to  do  nothing  that  could  ever 
make  me  in  any  way  suspect  in  the  eyes  of  those 
to  whom  I  looked  confidently  for  preferment  — 
from  continuing  the  practices  which  had  such  a 
fascination  for  me,  the  more  intensely  I  was 
secretly  drawn  toward  them.  The  tug  at  my  soul 
was  at  last  almost  unbearable.  It  was  then  I 

150 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

looked  toward  Chichester,  and  resolved  to  take 
him  into  my  confidence  —  to  a  certain  extent. 

"  I  approached  the  matter  craftily.  I  dwelt 
first  upon  the  great  spread  of  infidelity  in  our  days, 
and  the  necessity  of  combating  it  by  every  legiti- 
mate means.  I  spoke  of  the  efforts  being  made 
by  earnest  men  of  science  —  such  men  as  Profes- 
sor Stepton,  for  instance  —  to  get  at  the  truth 
Christians  are  expected  to  take  on  trust,  as  it  were. 
I  said  I  respected  such  men.  Chichester  agreed, 
—  when  did  he  not  agree  with  me  at  that 
time?  —  but  remarked  that  he  could  not  help 
pitying  them  for  ignoring  revelation  and  striving 
to  obtain  by  difficult  means  what  all  Christians 
already  possessed  by  a  glorious  and  final  deed 
of  gift. 

"  I  saw  that  though  Chichester  was  such  a  de- 
voted worshiper  of  mine,  if  I  wanted  to  persuade 
him  to  my  secret  purpose, —  no  other  than  the  ef- 
fort, to  be  made  with  him,  to  communicate  with 
the  spirit  world, —  I  must  be  deceptive,  I  must 
mask  my  purpose  with  another. 

"  I  did  so.  I  turned  his  attention  to  the  sub- 
ject of  the  human  will.  Now,  at  that  time  Chi- 
chester knew  that  his  will  was  weak.  He  consid- 
ered that  fact  one  of  his  serious  faults.  I  hinted 
that  I  agreed  with  him.  I  proposed  to  join  with 


THE  DWELLER 

him  in  striving  to  strengthen  it.  He  envied  my 
strength  of  will.  He  looked  up  to  me,  worshiped 
me  almost,  because  of  it.  I  drew  his  mind  to  the 
close  consideration  of  influence.  I  gave  him  two 
or  three  curious  works  that  I  possessed  on  this 
subject.  In  one  of  them,  a  pamphlet  written  by 
a  Hindu  who  had  been  partly  educated  at  Oxford, 
and  whom  I  had  personally  known  when  I  was  an 
undergraduate,  there  was  a  course  of  will-exercises, 
much  as  in  certain  books  on  body-building  there 
are  courses  of  physical  exercises.  I  related  to  Chi- 
chester  some  of  the  extraordinary  and  deeply  in- 
teresting conversations  I  had  had  with  this  Hindu 
on  the  subject  of  the  education  of  the  will,  and 
finally  I  told  a  lie.  I  told  Chichester  that  I  had 
gained  my  powerful  will  while  at  Oxford  by  draw- 
ing it  from  my  Hindu  friend  in  a  series  of  sittings 
that  we  two  had  secretly  undertaken  together. 
This  was  false,  because  I  had  been  born  with  a 
strong,  even  a  tyrannical,  will,  and  I  had  never 
sat  with  the  Hindu. 

"  Chichester,  though  at  first  startled,  was  fasci- 
nated by  this  untruth,  and,  to  cut  the  matter  short, 
I  persuaded  him  to  begin  with  me  a  series  of  secret 
sittings,  in  which  I  proposed  to  try  to  impart  to 
him,  to  infuse  into  him,  as  it  were,  some  of  my 
undoubted  power  —  the  power  which  he  daily 

152 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

saw  me  exercising  in  the  pulpit  and  over  the  minds 
of  men  in  my  intercourse  with  them. 

"  What  I  really  wished  to  do,  what  I  meant  to 
do,  if  possible,  was  to  use  Chichester  as  a  medium, 
and  to  try  through  him  to  communicate  with  the 
spirit  world.  I  had  taken  it  into  my  head  —  no 
doubt  you  will  say  quite  unreasonably  —  that  he 
must  be  entirely  subject  to  my  will  in  a  sitting,  and 
that  if  I  willed  him  to  be  entranced,  it  was  certain 
that  he  would  become  so.  But  my  own  entirely 
selfish  desires  I  concealed  under  the  cloak  of  an 
unselfish  wish  to  give  power  to  him.  I  even  pre- 
tended, as  you  see,  to  have  a  highly  moral  purpose, 
though  it  is  true  I  suggested  trying  to  effect  it  in 
an  unconventional  and  very  unecclesiastical  man- 
ner. 

"  Chichester,  though,  as  I  have  said,  at  first 
startled,  of  course  eventually  fell  in  with  my  view. 
We  sat  together  in  his  room  at  Hornton  Street. 

"  Now,  Mr.  Mailing,  some  of  what  I  have  told 
you  may  appear  to  be  almost  contradictory.  I 
have  spoken  of  my  maladie  de  grandeur  as  if  it 
were  a  reason  why  I  wished  to  sit  with  Henry 
Chichester,  and  then  of  my  desire  to  communicate, 
if  possible,  with  the  spirit  world  as  my  reason." 

"  I  noticed  that,"  observed  Mailing,  "  and  pur- 
posed later  to  point  it  out  to  you." 

153 


THE  DWELLER 

"How  can  I  explain  exactly?  It  is  so  difficult 
to  unravel  the  web  of  motives  in  a  mind.  It  was 
my  maladie  de  grandeur,  I  think,  that  made  me 
long  to  use  my  worshiper  Chichester  as  a  mere 
tool  for  the  opening  of  that  door  which  shuts  off 
from  us  the  region  the  dead  have  entered.  My 
mind  at  that  time  was  filled  with  a  mingled  con- 
ceit, amounting  at  moments  almost  to  an  intoxica- 
tion, and  a  desire  for  knowledge.  I  reveled  in 
my  power  when  preaching,  but  was  haunted  by 
genuine  doubts  as  to  truth.  My  egoism  longed 
to  make  an  utter  slave  of  Chichester  (I  nearly 
always  lusted  to  push  my  influence  to  its  limit). 
But  my  desire  to  know  made  me  conceive  the  push- 
ing of  it  in  a  direction,  in  this  instance,  which 
would  perhaps  gratify  a  less  unworthy  desire  than 
that  merely  of  subjugating  another.  The  two 
birds  and  the  one  stone !  I  thought  of  them.  I 
loved  the  idea  of  making  a  tool.  I  loved  also  the 
idea  of  using  the  tool  when  made.  And  I  pre- 
tended I  had  only  Chichester's  moral  interest  at 
heart.  I  have  been  punished,  terribly  punished. 

"  We  sat,  as  I  say,  in  Hornton  Street,  secretly, 
and  of  course  at  night.  My  wife  knew  nothing  of 
it.  I  made  excuses  to  get  away  —  parish  matters, 
meetings,  work  in  the  East  End.  I  had  no  diffi- 
culty with  her.  She  thought  my  many  activities 

154 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

would  bring  me  ever  more  and  more  into  the  pub- 
lic eye,  and  she  encouraged  them.  The  people  in 
the  house  where  Chichester  lodged  were  simple 
folk,  and  were  ready  to  go  early  to  bed,  leaving 
rector  and  curate  discussing  their  work  for  the  sal- 
vation of  bodies  and  souls. 

"  At  first  Chichester  was  reluctant,  I  know.  I 
read  his  thoughts.  He  was  not  sure  that  it  was 
right  to  approach  such  mysteries;  but,  as  usual,  I 
dominated  him  silently.  And  soon  he  fell  com- 
pletely under  the  fascination  peculiar  to  sittings." 

Again  Mr.  Harding  paused.  For  a  moment 
his  head  sank,  his  powerful  body  drooped,  he  was 
immersed  in  reverie.  Mailing  did  not  interrupt 
him.  At  last,  with  a  deep  sigh,  and  now  speaking 
more  slowly,  more  unevenly,  he  continued : 

*'  What  happened  exactly  at  those  sittings  I  do 
not  rightly  know.  Perhaps  I  shall  never  rightly 
know.  What  did  not  happen  I  can  tell  you.  In 
the  first  place,  although  I  secretly  used  my  will 
upon  Chichester,  desiring,  mentally  insisting,  that 
he  should  become  entranced,  he  never  was  en- 
tranced when  we  sat  together.  Something  within 
him  —  was  it  something  holy?  I  have  wondered 
—  resisted  my  desire,  of  which,  so  far  as  I  know, 
he  was  never  aware.  Perhaps  '  beneath  the 
threshold '  he  was  aware.  Who  can  say  ?  But 

155 


THE  DWELLER 

though  my  great  desire  was  frustrated  in  our  sit- 
tings, the  desire  of  Chichester,  so  different,  per- 
haps so  much  more  admirable  than  mine,  and,  at 
any  rate,  not  masked  by  any  deceit,  began,  so  it 
seemed,  to  be  strangely  gratified.  He  declared 
almost  from  the  first  that,  when  sitting  with  me, 
he  felt  his  will  power  strengthened.  '  You  are 
doing  me  good,'  he  said.  Now,  as  my  professed 
object  in  contriving  the  sittings  had  been  to  lift 
up  Chichester  toward  my  level," —  with  indescrib- 
able bitterness  Mr.  Harding  dwelt  on  these  last 
words, — "  I  could  only  express  rejoicing.  And 
this  I  did  with  successful  hypocrisy.  Neverthe- 
less, I  was  greatly  irritated.  For  it  seemed  to  me 
that,  when  we  sat,  Chichester  triumphed  over  me. 
He  obtained  his  desire  while  mine  remained  un- 
gratified.  This  was  an  outrage  directed  against 
my  supremacy  over  him,  which  I  had  designed  to 
increase.  I  gathered  together  my  will  power  to 
check  it.  But  in  this  attempt  I  failed. 

"  Nothing  is  stranger,  I  think,  Mr.  Mailing, 
than  the  fascination  of  a  sitting.  Even  when 
nothing,  or  scarcely  anything,  happens,  the  mind, 
the  whole  nature  seems  to  be  mysteriously  grasped 
and  held.  New  senses  in  you  seem  to  be  released. 
Something  is  alert  which  is  never  alert  —  or,  at 
all  events,  never  alert  in  the  same  way  —  in  other 

156 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

moments  of  life.  One  seems  to  become  inexplic- 
ably different.  Chichester  was  aware  of  all  this. 
At  the  first  sitting  nothing  happened,  and  I  feared 
Chichester  would  wish  to  give  the  matter  up. 
But,  no!  When  we  rose  from  our  chairs  late  in 
the  night  he  acknowledged  that  he  had  never 
known  two  hours  to  pass  so  quickly  before.  At 
following  sittings  there  were  slight  manifestations 
such  as,  I  suppose,  are  seldom  absent  from  such 
affairs, —  perfectly  trivial  to  you,  of  course, — 
movements  of  the  table,  rappings,  gusts  of  what 
seemed  cold  air,  and  so  forth.  All  that  is  not 
worth  talking  about,  and  I  don't  mean  to  trouble 
you  further  with  it.  My  difficulty  is,  when  so 
little,  apparently,  took  place,  to  make  you  under- 
stand the  tremendous  thing  that  did  happen,  that 
must  have  been  happening  gradually  during  our 
sittings. 

"  At  the  very  first,  as  I  told  you,  or  nearly  so, — 
I  wish  to  be  absolutely  accurate, —  Chichester  be- 
gan to  be  aware  of  a  strengthening  of  his  will. 
At  this  time  I  was  almost  angrily  unaware  of  any 
change  either  in  him  or  in  myself.  At  subsequent 
sittings  —  I  speak  of  the  earlier  ones  —  Chi- 
chester reiterated  more  strongly  his  assertion  of 
beneficent  alteration  in  himself.  I  did  not  believe 
him,  though  I  did  believe  he  was  absolutely  sin- 

157 


THE  DWELLER 

cere  in  his  supposition.  It  seemed  to  me  that  he 
was  '  suggestioned,'  partly  perhaps  by  his  implicit 
trust  in  me,  partly  by  his  own  desire  that  some- 
thing curious  should  happen.  However,  still 
playing  a  part  in  pursuance  of  my  resolve  not  to 
let  Chichester  know  my  real  object  in  this  matter, 
I  pretended  that  I,  too,  perceived  an  alteration  in 
him,  as  if  his  personality  were  strengthening. 
And  not  once,  but  on  several  occasions,  I  spoke  of 
the  change  in  him  as  almost  exactly  corresponding 
with  the  change  that  had  taken  place  in  me  when 
I  sat  with  my  Hindu  friend. 

"  All  this  time,  with  a  force  encouraged  by  the 
secret  anger  within  me,  I  violently,  at  last  almost 
furiously,  willed  that  Chichester  should  become 
entranced. 

"  But  at  length,  though  I  willed  furiously,  I  felt 
as  if  I  were  not  willing  with  genuine  strength,  as 
if  I  could  not  will  with  genuine  strength  any 
longer.  It  is  difficult,  almost  impossible,  to  ex- 
plain to  you  exactly  the  sensation  that  gradually 
overspread  me;  but  it  used  always  to  seem  to  me, 
when  I  self-consciously  exerted  my  will,  as  if  I 
held  within  me  some  weapon  almost  irresistible, 
as  if  I  forced  it  forward,  as  if  its  advance,  caused 
by  me,  could  not  be  withstood.  I  now  felt  as  if 
I  still  possessed  this  weapon,  but  could  not  induce 

*  158 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

it  to  move.  It  was  there,  like  a  heavy,  useless 
thing,  almost  like  a  burden  upon  me. 

"  And  Chichester  continued  to  assert  that  he 
felt  stronger,  more  resolute,  less  plastic. 

"  Things  went  on  thus  till  something  within  me, 
what  we  call  instinct,  I  suppose,  became  uneasy. 
I  heard  a  warning  voice  which  said  to  me,  '  Stop 
while  there  is  time !  '  And  I  resolved  to  obey  it. 

"  One  night,  when  very  late  Chichester  and  I 
took  our  hands  from  the  table  in  his  little  room, 
I  said  that  I  thought  we  had  had  enough  of  the 
sittings,  that  very  little  happened,  that  perhaps  he 
and  I  were  not  really  en  rapport,  and  that  it 
seemed  to  me  useless  to  continue  them.  I  suppose 
I  expected  Chichester  to  acquiesce.  I  say  I  sup- 
pose so,  because  till  that  moment  he  had  always 
acquiesced  in  any  proposition  of  mine.  Yet  I  re- 
member that  I  did  not  feel  genuine  surprise  at 
what  actually  happened." 

Mr.  Harding  stopped,  took  a  handkerchief 
from  his  pocket,  lifted  the  brim  of  his  hat,  and 
passed  the  handkerchief  over  his  forehead  two  or 
three  times. 

"  What  happened  was  this,  that  Chichester  re- 
sisted my  proposal,  and  that  I  found  myself 
obliged  to  comply  with  his  will  instead  of,  as  usual, 
imposing  mine  upon  him. 

159 


THE  DWELLER 

"  This  was  the  beginning  — "  the  rector  turned 
a  little  toward  Mailing,  and  spoke  in  a  voice  that 
was  almost  terrible  in  its  sadness  — "  this  was  the 
beginning  of  what  you  have  been  witness  of,  my 
unspeakable  decline.  This  was  the  definite  begin- 
ning of  my  horrible  subjection  to  Henry  Chi- 
chester." 

He  stopped  abruptly.  After  waiting  for  a 
minute  or  two,  expecting  him  to  continue,  Mailing 
said: 

"  You  said  that  you  found  yourself  obliged  to 
comply  with  Chichester's  will.  Can  you  explain 
the  nature  of  that  obligation  ?  " 

"  I  cannot.  I  strove  to  resist.  We  argued  the 
matter.  He  took  his  stand  upon  the  moral  ground 
that  I  was  benefiting  him  enormously  through  our 
sittings.  As  I  had  suggested  having  them  ostensi- 
bly for  that  very  purpose,  you  will  see  my  diffi- 
culty." 

11  Certainly." 

"  My  yielding  seemed  perfectly  natural,  perhaps 
almost  inevitable.  The  point  is  that,  without 
drastic  change  in  me,  it  was  quite  unnatural.  My 
will  was  unaccustomed  to  brook  any  resistance,  and 
troubled  itself  not  at  all  with  argument.  Till 
then  what  I  wished  to  do  I  did,  and  there  was  an 
end.  I  now  for  the  first  time  found  myself 

1 60 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

obliged  to  accept  a  moral  bondage  imposed  upon 
me  by  my  curate.  The  term  may  sound  exag- 
gerated; I  can  only  say  that  was  how  the  matter 
presented  itself  to  me.  From  the  moment  I  did 
so,  I  took  second  place  to  him. 

"  We  continued  to  sit  from  time  to  time.  And 
the  strange,  to  me  inexplicable,  situation  rapidly 
developed. 

'  To  put  it  before  you  in  few  words  and  plainly: 
Chichester  seemed  to  suck  my  will  away  from  me 
gradually  but  surely,  till  my  former  strength  was 
his.  But  that  was  not  all.  With  the  growth  of 
his  will  there  was  another  and  more  terrible 
growth:  there  rose  in  him  a  curiously  observant 
faculty." 

Again  the  rector  took  out  his  handkerchief  and 
wiped  his  brow. 

"  A  curiously  critical  faculty.  How  shall  I 
say?  Perhaps  you  may  know,  Mr.  Mailing,  how 
the  persistent  attitude  of  one  mind  may  influence 
another.  For  instance,  if  a  man  always  expects 
ill  of  another  —  treachery,  let  us  say,  bad  temper, 
hatred,  fear,  inducing  trickery,  perhaps,  that  other 
is  turned  toward  just  such  evil  manifestations  in 
connection  with  that  man.  If  some  one  with 
psychic  force  thinks  all  you  do  is  wrong,  soon  you 
begin  to  do  things  wrongly.  A  fearful  uneasiness 
11  161 


THE  DWELLER 

is  bred.  The  faculties  begin  to  fail.  The  for- 
merly sure-footed  stumbles.  The  formerly  self- 
confident  takes  on  nervousness,  presently  fear. 

"  So  it  came  about  between  Chichester  and  me. 
I  felt  that  his  mind  was  beginning  to  watch  me 
critically,  and  I  became  anxious  about  this  criti- 
cism. Like  some  subtle  acid  it  seemed  to  act  de- 
structively upon  the  metal,  once  so  hard  and 
resistant,  of  my  self-confidence,  of  my  belief  in 
myself.  Often  I  felt  as  if  an  eye  were  upon  me, 
seeing  too  much,  far  too  much,  coldly,  inexorably, 
persistently.  This  critical  observation  became 

hateful  to  me.     I  suffered  under  it.     I  suffered  ter- 

• 

ribly.  Mr.  Mailing,  if  I  am  to  tell  you  all, —  and 
I  feel  that  unless  I  do  no  help  can  come  to  me, — 
I  must  tell  you  that  I  have  not  been  in  my  life  all 
that  a  clergyman  should  be.  There  have  been  oc- 
casions, and  even  since  my  marriage,  when  I  have 
yielded  to  impulses  that  have  prompted  me  to  act 
very  wrongly. 

"  Now,  Chichester  was  a  saint.  Hitherto  I  had 
neither  been  troubled  by  my  own  grave  shortcom- 
ings nor  by  Chichester's  excellence  of  character. 
I  had  always  felt  myself  set  far  above  him  by  my 
superior  mental  faculties  and  my  greater  will 
power  over  the  crowd,  though,  alas!  not  always 
over  my  own  demon.  I  began  to  writhe  now 

162 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

under  the  thought  of  Chichester's  crystal  purity 
and  of  my  own  besmirched  condition  of  soul.  All 
self-confidence  departed  from  me;  but  I  endeav- 
ored, of  course,  to  conceal  this  from  the  world, 
and  especially  from  Chichester.  With  the  world 
for  a  time  no  doubt  I  succeeded.  But  with  Chi- 
chester —  did  I  ever  succeed  ?  Could  I  ever  suc- 
ceed with  such  an  one  as  he  had  become?  It 
seemed  to  me,  it  seems  to  me  far  more  terribly 
now,  that  nothing  I  did,  or  was,  escaped  him.  He 
attended  mentally,  spiritually  even,  to  everything 
that  made  up  me.  At  first  I  felt  this  curiously, 
then  anxiously,  then  often  with  bitter  contempt  and 
indignation,  sometimes  with  a  great  melancholy, 
a  sort  of  wide-spreading  sadness  in  which  I  was 
involved  as  in  an  icy  sea.  I  can  never  make  you 
fully  understand  what  I  felt,  how  this  mental  and 
spiritual  observation  of  Chichester  affected  me. 
It — it  simply  ate  me  away,  Mailing!  It  simply 
ate  me  away !  " 

The  last  words  came  from  Mr.  Harding's  lips 
almost  in  a  cry. 

"  And  how  long  did  you  continue  the  sit- 
tings?" 

Very  quietly  Mailing  spoke,  and  he  just  touched 
the  rector's  arm. 

"  For  a  long  while." 

163 


THE  DWELLER 

"  Had  you  ceased  from  them  when  I  first  met 
you?" 

"  On  Westminster  Bridge?     No." 

"  Have  you  ceased  from  them  now?  " 

The  rector  shifted  as  if  in  physical  distress. 

"  Chichester  constrains  me  to  them  even  now," 
he  replied,  like  a  man  bitterly  ashamed.  "  He 
constrains  me  to  them.  And  is  that  goodness, 
righteousness?  I  said  he  was  a  saint;  but  now! 
Is  it  saintliness  to  torture  a  fellow-creature  ?  " 

Mailing  remembered  how  he  had  once,  and  not 
long  ago,  asked  himself  whether  Chichester's 
mouth  and  eyes  looked  good. 

"  Have  you  ever  told  Chichester  what  grave 
distress  he  is  causing  you?  "  said  Mailing. 

"  No,  never,  never !     I  can't !  " 

"Why  not?" 

"  A  great  reserve  has  grown  up  between  us.  I 
could  never  try  to  break  through  it." 

"  You  say  a  great  reserve.  But  does  he  never 
criticize  you  in  words  ?  Does  he  never  express  an 
adverse  opinion  upon  what  you  say  or  do?  " 

"  Scarcely  ever  —  after  it  is  said  or  done.  But 
sometimes  — " 

"Yes?" 

"  Sometimes  —  often  I  think  —  he  tries  to  pre- 
vent me  from  saying  or  doing  something.  Often 

164 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

he  checks  me  with  a  look  when  I  am  in  the  midst 
of  some  speech.  It  is  intolerable.  Why  do  I 
bear  it?  But  I  have  to  bear  it.  Sometimes  I 
exert  myself  against  him.  Why,  that  first  day  I 
met  you  —  you  must  have  noticed  it  —  he  tried  to 
prevent  me  from  walking  home  with  you." 

"  I  did  notice  it." 

"  Then  I  resisted  him,  and  he  had  to  yield. 
But  even  when  he  yields  in  some  slight  matter  it 
makes  no  difference  in  our  relations.  He  is  al- 
ways there,  at  the  window,  watching  me." 

"What  do  you  say?" 

Mailing's  exclamation  was  sharp. 

"  That  sermon  of  his !  "  said  the  rector. 
"  That  fearful  sermon  1  Ever  since  I  heard  it  I 
have  felt  as  if  I  were  the  double  within  that  house, 
as  if  Chichester  were  the  man  regarding  my  life 
in  hiding.  Why  you  —  you  yourself  put  my  feel- 
ing into  words !  You  suggested  to  Chichester  and 
my  wife  that  if  the  man  had  stayed,  had  spied 
upon  him  who  was  within  the  room,  the  hypo- 
crite — " 

He  broke  off.     He  got  up  from  his  seat. 

"  Let  us  walk,"  he  said.  "  I  cannot  sit  here. 
The  air  —  the  lights  —  let  us  — " 

Almost  as  if  blindly  he  went  forth  from  the 
shelter,  followed  by  Mailing. 

165 


THE  DWELLER 

"It's  better  here,"  he  said.  "Better  here! 
Mr.  Mailing,  forgive  me,  but  just  then  a  hideous 
knowledge  seemed  really  to  catch  me  by  the  throat. 
Chichester  is  turning  my  wife  against  me.  There 
is  a  terrible  change  in  her.  She  is  beginning  to  ob- 
serve me  through  Chichester's  eyes.  Till  quite 
recently  she  worshiped  me.  She  noticed  the  alter- 
ation in  me,  of  course, —  every  one  did, —  but  she 
hated  Chichester  for  his  attitude  toward  me.  Till 
quite  lately  she  hated  him.  Now  she  no  longer 
hates  him ;  for  she  begins  to  think  he  is  right.  At 
first  I  think  she  believed  the  excuse  I  put  forward 
for  my  strange  transformation." 

"  Do  you  mean  your  nervous  affection?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Just  tell  me,  have  you  any  trouble  of  that 
kind,  or  did  you  merely  invent  it  as  an  excuse  for 
any  failure  you  made  from  time  to  time  ?  " 

"  I  used  it  insincerely  as  an  excuse.  But  I 
really  do  suffer  from  time  to  time  physically.  But 
physical  suffering  is  nothing.  Why  should  we 
waste  a  thought  on  such  nonsense?  " 

"  In  such  a  strange  case  as  this  I  believe  every- 
thing should  be  taken  carefully  into  considera- 
tion," observed  Mailing  in  his  most  prosaic  voice. 

The  rector's  attention  seemed  to  be  suddenly 
fixed  and  powerfully  concentrated.  The  feverish 

1 66 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

excitement  he  had  been  displaying  gave  place  to  a 
calmer,  more  natural  mood. 

"  Tell  me,"  he  said,  "  do  you  think  your  knowl- 
edge can  help  me?  I  am  aware  that  you  have 
made  many  strange  investigations.  Is  there  any- 
thing to  be  done  for  me,  anything  that  will  restore 
me  to  my  former  powers?  Will  you  credit  me 
when  I  declare  to  you  that  it  was  only  by  making 
a  terrible  effort  that  I  was  able  to  get  away  from 
Chichester's  companionship  and  to  come  down 
here?  If  I  had  not  said  that  I  meant  to  do  so 
while  you  were  in  the  room,  I  doubt  if  I  should 
ever  have  had  the  courage.  There  is  something 
inexplicable  that  seems  to  bind  me  to  Chichcster. 
Sometimes  there  have  been  moments  when  I  have 
thought  that  he  longed  to  be  far  away  from  me. 
And  it  has  seemed  to  me  that  he,  too,  would  find 
escape  difficult,  if  not  impossible." 

"  You  wish  very  much  that  Chichester  should 
resign  his  curacy  and  go  entirely  out  of  your  life  ?  " 
asked  Mailing. 

u  Wish !  "  cried  Mr.  Harding,  almost  fiercely. 
"  Oh,  the  unutterable  relief  to  me  if  he  were  to 
go!  Even  down  here,  away  from  him  for  a  day 
or  two,  I  sometimes  feel  released.  And  yet — " 
he  paused  in  his  walk  — "  I  shall  have  to  go  back 
—  I  know  it  —  sooner  than  I  meant  to,  very  soon." 


THE  DWELLER 

He  spoke  with  profound  conviction. 

"  Chichester  will  mean  me  to  go  back,  and  I 
shall  not  be  able  to  stay." 

"  And  yet  you  say  it  has  occurred  to  you  that 
possibly  Chichester  may  be  as  anxious  as  yourself 
to  break  away  from  the  strange  condition  of  things 
you  have  described  to  me." 

"  Have  you,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Harding — "  have 
you  some  reason  to  believe  Chichester  has  ever 
contemplated  departure?  " 

Mailing  moved  slowly  on,  and  the  rector  was 
forced  to  accompany  him. 

"  It  has  occurred  to  me,"  he  said,  evading  the 
point,  "  that  possibly  Henry  Chichester  might  be 
induced  to  go  out  of  your  life." 

"  Never  by  me !  I  should  never  have  the 
strength  to  attempt  compulsion  with  Chichester." 

"  Some  one  else  might  tackle  him." 

"  Who?  "  cried  out  Mr.  Harding. 

"  Some  man  with  authority." 

"  Do  you  mean  ecclesiastical  authority?  " 

"  Oh,  dear,  no !  I  was  thinking  of  a  man  like, 
say,  Professor  Stepton." 

As  Mailing  spoke,  a  curious  figure  seemed  al- 
most to  dawn  upon  them,  sidewise,  becoming  visi- 
ble gently  in  the  darkness;  a  short  man,  with 
hanging  arms,  a  head  poked  forward,  as  if  in 

168 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

sharp  inquiry,  and  rather  shambling  legs,  round 
which  hung  loosely  a  pair  of  very  baggy,  light 
trousers. 

"And  here   is  the  professor!"   said   Mailing, 
stopping  short. 


169 


IX 


THAT  night  when,  very  late,  Mr.  Harding 
and  Mailing  returned  to  the  red  doll's  house 
and  let  themselves  into  it  with  a  latch-key,  they 
found  lying  upon  the  table  in  the  little  hall  a  brown 
envelop. 

"  A  telegram  !  "  said  the  rector. 

He  took  it  into  his  hand  and  read  the  name  on 
the  envelop. 

"  It 's  for  me.  Mailing,  do  you  know  whom 
this  telegram  is  from  ?  " 

"  How  can  I,  or  you,  for  that  matter?  " 

"  It  is  from  Henry  Chichester,  and  it  is  to  re- 
call me  to  London." 

"  It  may  be  so." 

"  It  is  so.     Open  it  for  me." 

Mailing  took  the  telegram  from  him  and  tore 
it  open,  while  he  sat  heavily  down  by  the  table. 

"  Please  return  if  possible  difficulties  in  the 
parish  Benyon  ill  need  your  presence  Chichester." 

Mailing  looked  down  at  the  rector. 
'  You  see !  "  Mr.  Harding  said  slowly. 
170 


THE  DWELLER 

"  What  do  you  mean  to  do?  " 

Mr.  Harding  got  up  from  his  chair  with  an 
effort  like  that  of  a  weary  man. 

"I  wonder  where  the  railway-guide  is?"  he 
said.  "  Excuse  me  for  a  moment,  Mr.  Mailing." 

He  went  away  into  the  drawing-room,  and  re- 
turned with  the  railway-guide  open  in  his  hand. 

"  Mailing,"  he  said,  using  the  greater  famil- 
iarity he  had  for  a  moment  discarded,  "  I  am  about 
to  do  a  rude  thing,  but  I  ask  you,  I  beg  of  you,  to 
acquit  me  of  any  rude  intention  toward  yourself. 
I  have  been  looking  up  the  Sunday  trains.  I  find 
I  can  catch  a  good  one  at  Faversham  to-morrow 
morning.  There  is  a  motor  I  can  hire  in  the  town 
to  get  there.  It  stands  just  by  the  post-office, 
where  the  road  branches."  He  paused,  looking 
into  Mailing's  face  as  if  in  search  of  some  sign  of 
vexation  or  irony.  "  With  a  large  parish  on  my 
hands,"  he  went  on,  "  I  have  a  great  responsibility. 
And  if  Benyon,  my  second  curate,  is  ill,  they  will 
be  short-handed." 

"  I  see." 

"  What  distresses  me  greatly  —  greatly  —  is 
leaving  you,  my  guest,  at  such  short  notice.  I  can- 
not say  how  I  regret  it." 

He  stopped.  Purposely,  to  test  him,  Mailing 
said  nothing,  but  waited  with  an  expressionless  face. 

171 


THE  DWELLER 

"  I  cannot  say.  But  how  can  I  do  otherwise? 
My  duty  to  the  parish  must  come  before  all 
things." 

"  I  see,"  said  Mailing  again. 

Looking  greatly  disturbed,  Mr.  Harding  con- 
tinued : 

"  I  will  ask  you  to  do  me  a  very  great  favor. 
Although  I  am  obliged  to  go,  I  hope  you  will  stay, 
I  entreat  you  to  stay  till  Monday.  The  professor 
is  here.  You  will  not  be  companionless.  The 
servants  will  do  everything  to  make  you  comfort- 
able. As  to  food,  wine  —  everything  is  provided 
for.  Will  you  stay?  I  shall  feel  more  at  ease 
in  going  if  I  know  my  departure  has  not  shortened 
your  visit." 

"  It  is  very  good  of  you,"  Mailing  replied. 
"  I  '11  accept  your  kind  offer.  To  tell  the  truth, 
I  'm  in  no  hurry  to  leave  the  Tankerton  air." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  the  rector,  almost  with  fer- 
vor. ''  Thank  you." 

So,  the  next  morning,  Mr.  Harding  went  away 
in  the  hired  motor,  and  Mailing  found  himself 
alone  in  the  red  doll's  house. 

He  was  not  sorry.  The  rector's  revelation  on 
the  previous  night  had  well  repaid  him  for  his 
journey;  then  the  air  of  Tankerton  really  rejoiced 
him;  and  he  would  have  speech  of  the  professor. 

172 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

"  I  shall  lay  it  before  Stepton,"  he  had  said  to 
Mr.  Harding  the  previous  night,  after  they  had 
parted  from  the  professor. 

And  he  had  spoken  with  authority.  Mr.  Har- 
ding's  confidence,  his  self-abasement,  and  his  almost 
despairing  appeal,  had  surely  given  Mailing  certain 
rights.  He  intended  to  use  them  to  the  full. 
The  rector's  abrupt  relapse  into  reserve,  his  piti- 
ful return  to  subterfuge,  after  the  receipt  of  that 
hypnotizing  telegram,  had  not,  in  Mailing's  view, 
abrogated  those  rights. 

When  the  motor  disappeared,  he  strolled  across 
the  grass  with  a  towel  and  had  a  dip  in  the  brown 
sea,  going  in  off  the  long  shoal  that  the  Whitstable 
and  Tankerton  folk  call  "  the  Street."  Then  he 
set  out  to  find  the  professor. 

His  interview  with  Stepton  on  the  previous 
night  in  the  presence  of  Mr.  Harding  had  been 
rather  brief.  Stepton  had  been  preoccupied  and 
monosyllabic.  Agnes  had  been  right  as  to  his 
reason  for  honoring  the  coast  of  Kent  with  his 
company,  but  wrong  as  to  the  haunted  house's  loca- 
tion. It  was  not  in  Birchington,  but  lay  inland, 
within  easy  reach  of  Tankerton.  When  he  met 
Mailing  and  Harding,  the  professor  was  going  to 
his  hotel,  where  a  motor  was  waiting  to  convey  him 
to  the  house,  in  which  he  intended  to  pass  the 


THE  DWELLER 

night.  His  mind  was  fixed  tenaciously  upon  the 
matter  in  hand.  Mailing  had  realized  at  once  that 
it  was  not  the  moment  to  disturb  him  by  the  intro- 
duction of  any  other  affair,  however  interesting. 
But  his  suggestion  of  a  meeting  the  next  morning 
was  thus  welcomed : 

"  Right!  I  shall  be  at  home  at  churchtime  — 
as  you  're  not  preaching." 

The  second  half  of  the  sentence  was  directed  to 
Mr.  Harding,  who  said  nothing. 

"  And  you  might  give  me  a  cup  of  tea  in  the 
afternoon,"  the  professor  had  added,  looking  at 
the  rector  rather  narrowly  before  shambling  off  to 
his  hotel  to  get  the  plaid  shawl  which  he  often 
wore  at  night. 

"  With  the  greatest  pleasure.  Minors  is  the 
name  of  the  house,"  had  been  Mr.  Harding's  re- 
ply. 

Whereupon  the  professor  had  vanished,  mut- 
tering to  himself: 

"  Minors!  And  why  not  Majors,  if  you  come 
to  that?  Perhaps  too  suggestive  of  heart-breaking 
military  men.  Minors  is  safer  in  a  respectable 
seaside  place." 

The  professor  had  been  up  all  night,  but  looked 
much  as  usual,  and  was  eating  a  hearty  breakfast 
of  bacon  and  eggs  in  the  cheerful  coffee-room  when 


Mailing  arrived.  He  scarcely  ever  ate  at  ortho- 
dox hours,  and  had  frequently  been  caught  lunch- 
ing at  restaurants  in  London  between  four  and 
five  in  the  afternoon. 

"Where's  the  rector?  At  church?"  was  his 
greeting. 

"  The  rector  has  gone  back  to  London,"  re- 
plied Mailing,  sitting  down  by  the  table. 

"What  about  my  cup  of  tea,  then?"  snapped 
Stepton. 

"  I  will  be  your  host.  I  'm  here  till  to-mor- 
row. Any  interesting  manifestations?" 

"  A  rat  or  two  and  a  hysterical  kitchen-maid 
seem  to  be  the  responsible  agents  in  the  building 
up  of  the  reputation  of  the  house  I  kept  awake 
in  last  night." 

"  I  believe  I  have  a  more  interesting  problem 
for  you." 

The  professor  stretched  out  a  sinewy  hand. 

"Cambridge  marmalade!  Most  encoura- 
ging! "  he  muttered.  "  Have  the  reverend  gentle- 
men of  St.  Joseph's  been  at  it  again  —  success- 
fully?" 

"  I  want  you  to  judge." 

And  thereupon  Mailing  laid  the  case  faithfully 
before  the  professor,  describing  not  only  the  din- 
ner in  Hornton  Street  and  his  interview  with  Lady 


THE  DWELLER 

Sophia,  but  also  the  two  sermons  he  had  heard  at 
St.  Joseph's,  and  the  rector's  lamentable  outburst 
of  the  previous  night.  This  last,  having  a  re- 
markably retentive  memory,  he  reproduced  in  the 
main  in  Mr.  Harding's  own  words,  omitting  only 
the  rector's  reference  to  his  moral  lapses.  During 
the  whole  time  he  was  speaking  Stepton  was  closely 
engaged  with  the  Cambridge  marmalade,  and 
showed  no  symptoms  of  attention  to  anything 
else.  When  he  ceased,  Stepton  remarked: 

"  Really,  clergymen  are  far  more  to  be  de- 
pended upon  for  valuable  manifestations  than  a 
rat  or  two  and  a  hysterical  kitchen-maid.  Come 
to  my  room,  Mailing." 

The  professor  had  a  bedroom  facing  the  sea. 
He  led  Mailing  to  it,  shut  the  door,  gave  Mailing 
a  cane  chair,  sat  down  himself,  in  a  peculiar,  crab- 
like  posture,  upon  the  bed,  and  said: 

"  Now  give  me  as  minute  a  psychological  study 
of  the  former  and  actual  Henry  Chichester  as 
you  can." 

Mailing  complied  with  this  request  as  lucidly 
and  tersely  as  he  could,  wasting  no  words. 

"  Any  unusual  change  in  his  outward  man  since 
you  knew  him  two  years  ago  ?  "  asked  the  profes- 
sor, when  he  had  finished. 

Mailing  mentioned  the  question  as  to  the 
176 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

curate's  eyes  and  mouth  which  had  risen  in  his 
mind,  and  added: 

"  But  the  character  of  the  man  is  so  changed 
that  it  may  have  suggestioned  me  into  feeling 
as  if  there  were  physical  change  in  him,  too." 

"  More  than  would  be  inevitable  in  any  man  in 
a  couple  of  years.  And  now  as  to  his  digestive 
organs." 

"  Good  heavens!  "  exclaimed  Mailing. 

The  apparent  vagaries  of  his  companion  very 
seldom  surprised  him,  but  this  time  he  was  com- 
pletely taken  aback. 

"  Are  they  what  they  were  ?  Assuming,  on 
your  part,  a  knowledge  of  what  they  were." 

"  I  don't  know  either  in  what  condition  they  are 
now,  or  in  what  condition  they  were  once." 

"  Ah !  Now  I  must  draw  up  a  report  about 
last  night.  I  '11  come  for  that  cup  of  tea  to 
Minors  —  might  almost  as  well  have  been  Majors, 
even  granting  the  military  flavor  —  about  five." 

Mailing  took  his  departure. 

At  a  quarter  to  five  he  heard  the  click  of  the 
garden  gate,  and  looking  out  at  the  latticed  win- 
dow of  the  hall,  he  saw  the  professor  walking  side- 
wise  up  the  path,  with  a  shawl  round  his  shoulders. 
He  went  to  let  him  in,  and  took  him  into  the  tiny 
drawing-room. 

177 


THE  DWELLER 

"  An  odd  shell  for  Harding !  "  observed  the 
professor.  "  More  suitable  to  a  bantam  than  to 
a  Cochin-China !  " 

"  It  does  n't  belong  to  him." 

"  Nor  he  to  it.  Very  wise  and  right  of  him  to 
go  back  to  Onslow  Gardens." 

A  maid  brought  in  the  tea,  and  the  professor, 
spread  strangely  forth  in  a  small,  chintz-covered 
arm-chair,  enjoyed  it  while  he  talked  about  oysters 
and  oyster-beds.  He  was  deeply  interested  in  the 
oysters  of  Whitstable,  and  held  forth  almost  ro- 
mantically on  their  birth  and  upbringing,  the  fat- 
tening, the  packing,  the  selling,  and  the  eating  of 
them — "with  lemon,  not  vinegar,  mind!  To 
eat  vinegar  with  a  Whitstable  native  is  as  vicious 
as  to  offer  a  libation  of  catchup  at  the  altar  of  a 
meadow  mushroom  just  picked  up  out  of  the  dew." 

Mailing  did  not  attempt  to  turn  his  mind  from 
edibles.  The  professor  had  to  be  let  alone. 
When  tea  was  finished  and  cleared  away,  he  ob- 
served : 

"And  now,  Mailing,  what  is  your  view?  Do 
you  look  upon  it  as  a  case  of  transferred  person- 
ality? I  rather  gathered  from  your  general  tone 
that  you  were  mentally  drifting  in  that  direction." 

"  But  are  there  such  cases?  Of  double  transfer, 
I  mean?  " 

178 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

"  Personally  I  have  never  verified  one.  When 
you  spoke  of  the  reverend  gentlemen  for  the  first 
time,  I  said,  '  Study  the  link  I  '  There  will  be  de- 
velopment in  the  link  if  —  all  the  rest  of  it." 

"  There  has  been  development,  as  I  told  you. 
The  link  is  on  his  side  now." 

"  That 's  remarkable,  undoubtedly.  Has  it 
ever  struck  you  that  Harding  was  almost  too 
successful  a  clergyman  to  be  a  genuinely  holy 
man?" 

"  What  do  you  mean?  " 

"  There  's  a  modesty  in  holiness  that  is  hardly 
adapted  to  catch  smart  women." 

"  You  used  to  go  to  hear  Harding  preach." 

"  And  d'  you  know  why  I  liked  his  sermons?  " 

"Why?" 

"  Because  he  understood  doubt  so  well.  That 
amused  me.  But  the  man  who  has  such  a  compre- 
hensive understanding  of  skepticism,  is  very  seldom 
a  true  believer.  One  thing,  though,  Harding 
certainly  does  believe  in,  judging  by  a  sermon  I 
once  heard  him  preach." 

"And  that  is?" 

"  Manicheism.  Chichester,  you  say,  was  a 
saint?" 

"  He  was,  if  a  man  can  be  a  saint  who  has  a 
certain  amiable  weakness  of  character." 

179 


THE  DWELLER 

"  And  now?  You  think  he  would  be  a  difficult 
customer  to  tackle  now?  " 

"  Harding  finds  him  so." 

"  And  Harding  was  an  overwhelming  chap, 
cocksure  of  himself.  Chichester  must  be  difficult. 
Shall  I  tackle  him?" 

"  I  wish  you  would.  But  how  ?  Do  you  wish 
me  to  introduce  him  to  you  ?  " 

"  Let  me  see." 

The  professor  dropped  his  head  and  remained 
silent  for  a  minute  or  two. 

"  Tell  me  something,"  he  at  length  remarked, 
lifting  his  head  and  assuming  his  most  terrier-like 
aspect.  "  Do  you  think  Harding  a  whited 
sepulcher?  " 

"  Possibly." 

"  And  do  you  think  his  saintly  curate  has  found 
it  out?" 

"  Do  you  think  that  would  supply  a  natural 
explanation  of  the  mystery?  " 

"  Should  you  prefer  to  search  for  it  in  that 
malefic  region  which  is  the  abiding-place  of  nerv- 
ous dyspepsia?  " 

"How  could—" 

"  Acute  nervous  dyspepsia,  complicated  by  a 
series  of  sittings  under  the  rose,  might  eat  away  the 
most  brazen  self-confidence.  That 's  as  certain  as 

180 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

that  I  wear  whiskers  and  you  don't.  Shall  we  do 
an  addition  sum?  Shall  we  add  Chichester's  dis- 
covery of  secret  lapses  in  his  worshiped  rector's 
life,  to  the  nervous  dyspepsia  and  the  sittings? 
Shall  we  do  that?" 

"And  Lady  Sophia?" 

"  There  's  a  sunflower  type  of  woman.  The 
rising  sun  can't  escape  her  inevitable  worship." 

"  The  change  in  Harding  may  be  a  natural  one. 
But  there  is  something  portentous  in  the  change 
in  Chichester,"  said  Mailing.  "  You  know  I  'm  a 
rather  cool  hand,  and  certainly  not  inclined  to  easy 
credulity.  But  there 's  something  about  Chi- 
chester which  —  well,  Professor,  I  '11  make  a  con- 
fession to  you  that  is  n't  a  pleasant  one  for  any  man 
to  make.  There 's  something  about  Chichester 
which  shakes  my  nerves." 

"  And  you  have  n't  got  nervous  dyspepsia?  " 

"Should  I  be  even  a  meliorist  —  as  I  am  —  if 
I  had?" 

"  I  must  know  Chichester.  It 's  a  pity  I  did  n't 
know  him  formerly." 

"  I  don't  believe  that  matters,"  said  Mailing, 
with  intense  conviction.  "  There  is  that  in  him 
which  must  strike  you  and  affect  you,  whether  you 
knew  him  as  he  was  or  not." 

"  So  long  as  I  don't  turn  tail  and  run  from  him, 
181 


THE  DWELLER 

all 's  well.  I  will  tackle  Chichester.  In  the  in- 
terests of  science  I  will  face  this  curate.  But  how 
shall  I  approach  him?  As  in  golf,  the  approach 
is  much,  if  not  everything." 

He  sat  thinking  for  some  minutes,  with  his  eye- 
brows twitching.  Then  he  said: 

"  The  question  is,  Should  the  approach  be 
casual  or  direct?  Shall  I  describe  a  curve,  or 
come  to  him  as  the  crow  comes  when  making  for 
a  given  point  —  or  is  said  to  come,  for  I  Ve  never 
investigated  that  matter?  What  do  you  say?  " 

"  It 's  very  difficult  to  say.  On  the  day  I  dined 
in  Hornton  Street,  Chichester  certainly  wanted  to 
tell  me  something.  He  asked  me  to  dine,  I  am  al- 
most sure,  in  order  that  he  might  tell  it  to  me." 

"  About  the  sittings  with  Harding,  no  doubt." 

"  That,  perhaps,  and  something  more." 

"  But  he  told  you  nothing." 

"  Directly." 

"  Do  you  think  he  would  be  more  or  less  likely 
to  unbosom  himself  now  than  he  was  then?" 

"  Less  likely." 

"  You  might  Igive  me  his  address." 

Mailing  did  so.  The  professor  wrote  the  ad- 
dress down  on  a  slip  of  paper,  pinned  the  slip 
carefully  to  the  yellow  lining  of  his  jacket,  and 
then  got  up  to  go. 

182 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

But  Mailing  detained  him. 

"  Professor,"  he  said,  speaking  with  an  unusual 
hesitation,  "  you  know  why  I  told  you  all  this." 

"  In  the  interests  of  science?  " 

"  No,  in  the  interest  of  that  miserable  man, 
Marcus  Harding.  I  want  you  to  break  the  link 
that  binds  him  to  Henry  Chichester  —  if  there  is 
one.  I  want  you  to  effect  his  release." 

"  I  'm  afraid  you  've  come  to  the  wrong  man," 
returned  Stepton,  dryly.  "  My  object  in  entering 
into  this  matter  is  merely  to  increase  my  knowl- 
edge, not  to  destroy  my  chance  of  increasing  it." 

"But  surely—" 

"  We  shall  never  get  forward  if  we  move  in  the 
midst  of  a  fog  of  pity  and  sentiment." 

Mailing  said  no  more;  but  as  he  watched  the 
professor  shambling  to  the  garden  gate,  he  felt  as 
if  he  had  betrayed  Marcus  Harding, 


183 


CHAPTER  X 

SOON  after  Mailing  had  returned  to  London, 
he    received    the    following    note    from    Mr. 
Harding: 

Onslow  Gardens,  June  — th. 
Dear  Mr.  Mailing: 

I  seem  to  have  some  remembrance  of  your  saying  to 
me  at  Tankerton  that  you  wished  to  speak  to  Professor 
Stepton  with  regard  to  a  certain  matter.  I  may  be  wrong 
in  my  recollection.  If,  however,  I  am  right,  I  now  beg 
you  not  to  speak  to  the  professor.  I  have,  of  course, 
the  very  highest  regard  for  his  discretion;  nevertheless, 
one  must  not  be  selfish.  One  must  not  think  only  of  one's 
self.  I  have  obligations  to  others,  and  I  fear,  when  we 
were  together  at  Tankerton,  I  forgot  them.  A  word  of 
assurance  from  you  that  Professor  Stepton  knows  noth- 
ing of  our  conversation  will  set  at  rest  the  mind  of 

Yours  sincerely, 

Marcus  Harding. 

As  soon  as  he  had  read  this  communication, 
Mailing  realized  that  he  had  been  right  in  his 
supposition  that  a  new  reserve  was  growing  up  in 
Henry  Chichester.  He  was  aware  of  Chichester's 

184 


THE  DWELLER 

reserve  in  the  letter  of  the  rector.  He  was  aware, 
too,  of  the  latter's  situation  as  he  had  never  been 
aware  of  it  before.  Often  a  trifle  illuminates  a 
life,  as  a  search-light  brings  some  distant  place 
from  the  darkness  into  a  fierce  radiance  that  makes 
it  seem  near.  So  it  was  now. 

"Poor  Harding!"  thought  Mailing,  with  an 
unusual  softness.  "  But  this  letter  comes  too 
late." 

What  answer  should  he  return  to  the  rector? 
He  hated  insincerity,  but  on  this  occasion  he 
stooped  to  it.  He  had  not  only  the  fear  of 
Stepton  upon  him;  he  had  also  the  desire  not 
to  add  to  the  deep  misery  of  Marcus  Harding. 
This  was  his  answer: 

Cadogan  Square,  June  — . 
Dear  Mr.  Harding: 

In  reply  to  your  letter,  I  will  not  now  repeat  our 
conversation  of  the  other  evening  to  Professor  Stepton. 
He  is,  as  you  say,  a  man  of  the  highest  discretion,  and 
should  you  feel  inclined  yourself  to  take  him  into  your 
confidence  at  any  time,  I  think  you  will  not  regret  it. 

Yours  sincerely, 

Evelyn  Mailing. 

As  he  put  this  note  into  an  envelope,  Mailing 
said  to  himself: 

"  Some  day  I  '11  let  him  know  I  deceived  him; 
185 


THE  DWELLER 

I  '11  let  him  know  I  had  already  told  the  pro- 
fessor." 

Two  or  three  days  later  Mailing  heard  of  the 
professor  having  been  at  a  party  in  Piccadilly  at 
which  Lady  Sophia  was  a  guest. 

"  And  do  you  know,  really," —  Mailing's  in- 
formant, a  lively  married  woman,  concluded, — 
"  those  old  scientific  men  are  quite  as  bad  as  any 
of  the  boys  who  only  want  to  have  a  good  time. 
The  professor  sat  in  Lady  Sophia's  pocket  the 
whole  evening!  Literally  in  her  pocket!  " 

"  I  did  n't  know  modern  women  had  pockets," 
returned  Mailing. 

"They  don't,  of  course;  but  you  know  what  I 
mean." 

Mailing  understood  that  the  professor  was  be- 
ginning his  "  approach." 

A  week  went  by,  and  at  a  man's  dinner,  Mailing 
chanced  to  sit  next  to  Blandford  Sikes,  one  of  the 
most  noted  physicians  of  the  day.  In  the  course 
of  conversation  the  doctor  remarked: 

"  Is  your  friend  Stepton  going  to  set  up  in  Har- 
ley  Street?" 

"  Not  that  I  know  of,"  said  Mailing.  "  What 
makes  you  ask?  " 

"  He  came  to  consult  me  the  other  day,  and 
when  I  told  him  he  was  as  sound  as  Big  Ben  he 

186 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

sat  with  me  for  over  half  an  hour  pumping  me 
unmercifully  on  the  subject  of  nervous  dyspepsia. 
The  patient  who  followed,  and  who  happened  to 
be  a  clergyman,  looked  fairly  sick  when  he  was 
let  in  at  last." 

Who  happened  to  be  a  clergyman!  Mailing 
had  longed  to  ask  Blandford  Sikes  a  question  — 
who  that  clergyman  was.  But  he  refrained.  To 
do  so,  would  doubtless  have  seemed  oddly  inquisi- 
tive. It  was  surely  enough  for  him  to  know  that 
the  professor  was  busily  at  work  in  his  peculiar 
way.  And  Mailing  thought  again  of  that  "  ap- 
proach." Evidently  the  professor  must  be  de- 
scribing the  curve  he  had  spoken  of.  When  would 
he  arrive  at  Henry  Chichester?  There  were  mo- 
ments when  Mailing  felt  irritated  by  Stepton's 
silence.  That  it  was  emulated  by  Marcus  Hard- 
ing, Lady  Sophia,  and  Henry  Chichester  did  not 
make  matters  easier  for  him.  However,  he  had 
deliberately  chosen  to  put  this  strange  affair  into 
Stepton's  hands.  Stepton  had  shown  no  special 
alacrity  with  regard  to  the  matter.  Mailing  felt 
that  he  could  do  nothing  now  but  wait. 

He  waited. 

Now  and  then  rumors  reached  him  of  Marcus 
Harding's  fading  powers,  now  and  then  he  heard 
people  discussing  one  of  Henry  Chichester's  "  re- 

187 


THE  DWELLER 

markable  sermons,"  now  and  then  in  society  some 
feminine  gossip  murmuring  that  "  Sophia  Hard- 
ing seems  to  be  perfectly  sick  of  that  husband  of 
hers.  She  probably  wishes  now  that  she  had  taken 
all  her  people's  advice  and  refused  him.  Of 
course  if  he  had  been  made  a  bishop!  " 

The  season  ended.  Goodwood  was  over,  and 
Mailing  went  off  to  Munich  and  Bayreuth  for 
music.  Then  he  made  a  walking-tour  with  friends 
in  the  Oberammergau  district,  and  returned  to 
England  only  when  the  ruddy  banners  of  autumn 
were  streaming  over  the  land. 

Still  there  was  no  communication  from  the  pro- 
fessor. Mailing  might  of  course  have  written  to 
him  or  sought  him.  He  preferred  to  possess  his 
soul  in  patience.  Stepton  was  an  arbitrary  per- 
sonage, and  the  last  man  in  the  world  to  consent 
to  a  process  of  pumping. 

Meanwhile  Stepton  had  forgotten  all  about 
Mailing.  He  was  full  of  work  of  various  kinds, 
but  the  work  that  most  interested  him  was  con- 
nected with  the  reverend  gentlemen  of  St.  Joseph's. 
As  Mailing  surmised,  he  had  lost  little  time  in  be- 
ginning his  "  approach,"  and  that  approach  had 
been  rather  circuitous.  He  had  taken  his  own  ad- 
vice and  studied  the  link.  This  done,  the  intricate 
and  fascinating  subject  of  nervous  dyspepsia  had 

188 


claimed  his  undivided  attention.  When  he  had 
finished  his  prolonged  interview  with  Blandford 
Sikes,  sidling  back  to  the  waiting-room  to  gather 
up  various  impedimenta,  he  had  encountered  the 
unfortunate  clergyman  whom  he  had  kept  waiting. 
Marcus  Harding  was  the  man.  They  exchanged 
only  a  couple  of  words,  but  the  sight  of  the  flaccid 
bulk,  the  hanging  cheeks  and  hands,  the  eyes  in 
which  dwelt  a  sort  of  faded  despair,  whipped  up 
into  keen  alertness  every  faculty  of  the  professor's 
mind.  As  he  walked  into  Cavendish  Square  he 
muttered  to  himself: 

"  I  never  saw  a  clergyman  look  more  promising 
for  investigation,  by  Jove !  Never  I  There 's 
something  in  it.  Mailing  was  not  entirely  wrong. 
There  's  certainly  something  in  it." 

But  what?     Now  for  Henry  Chichester! 

Stepton  was  by  nature  unemotional,  but  he  was 
an  implicit  believer  in  the  hysteria  of  others,  and  he 
thought  clergymen,  as  a  class,  more  liable  to  that 
malady  than  other  classes  of  men.  Curates,  be- 
ing as  a  rule  young  clergymen,  were,  in  his  view, 
specially  subject  to  the  inroads  of  the  cloudy  com- 
plaint, which  causes  the  mind  to  see  mountains 
where  only  mole-hills  exist,  and  to  appreciate  any- 
thing more  readily  and  accurately  than  the  naked 
truth.  Henry  Chichester  was  young  and  he  was 

189 


THE  DWELLER 

a  curate.  He  was  therefore  likely  to  be  emotional 
and  to  be  attracted  by  the  mysterious,  more  es- 
pecially since  he  had  recently  been  knocking  on 
its  door,  according  to  Mailing's  statement. 

After  a  good  deal  of  thought,  the- professor  re- 
solved to  cast  aside  convention,  and  to  make  Chi- 
chester's  acquaintance  without  any  introduction;  in- 
deed, with  the  maximum  of  informality. 

He  learned  something  about  Chichester's  habits, 
and  managed  to  meet  him  several  times  when  he 
was  walking  from  the  daily  service  at  St.  Joseph's 
to  his  rooms  in  Hornton  Street.  In  this  walk 
Chichester  passed  the  South  Kensington  Museum. 
What  more  natural  than  that  the  professor  should 
chance  to  be  coming  out  of  it? 

The  first  time  they  met,  Stepton  looked  at  the 
curate  casually,  the  second  time  more  sharply,  the 
third  time  with  scrutiny.  He  knew  how  to  make 
a  crescendo.  The  curate  noticed  it,  as  of  course 
the  professor  intended.  He  did  not  know  who 
Stepton  was,  but  he  began  to  wonder  about  this 
birdlike,  sharp-looking  man,  who  evidently  took 
an  interest  in  him.  And  presently  his  wonder 
changed  into  suspicion.  This  again  accorded  with 
the  professor's  intention. 

One  day,  after  the  even-song  at  St.  Joseph's, 
Stepton  saw  flit  across  the  face  of  the  curate, 

190 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

whom  he  was  meeting,  a  flicker  of  something 
like  fear.  The  two  men  passed  each  other,  and 
immediately,  like  one  irresistibly  compelled,  the 
professor  looked  back.  As  he  did  so,  Chichester 
also  turned  round  to  spy  upon  this  unknown,,  En- 
countering the  gaze  of  the  professor,  he  started, 
flushed  scarlet,  and  pursued  his  way,  walking  with 
a  quickened  step. 

The  professor  went  homeward,  chuckling. 

"  To-day  's  Tuesday,"  he  thought.  "  By  Satur- 
day, at  latest,  he  '11  have  spoken  to  me. .  He  '11 
have  to  speak  to  me  to  relieve  the  tension  of  his 
nerve-ganglions." 

Chichester  did  not  wait  till  Saturday.  On  Fri- 
day afternoon,  coming  suddenly  upon  Stepton  at  a 
corner,  he  stopped  abruptly,  and  said: 

"  May  I  ask  if  you  want  anything  of  me?  " 

"  Sir!  "  barked  Stepton.     "  Mr.  Chichester!  " 

"  You  know  my  name?  "  said  the  curate. 

"  And  probably  you  know  mine  —  Professor 
Stepton." 

A  relief  that  was  evidently  intense  dawned  in 
the  curate's  face. 

"  You  are  Professor  Stepton !  You  are  Mr. 
Mailing's  friend!" 

"  Exactly.     Good  day." 

And  the  professor  marched  on. 
191 


THE  DWELLER 

Chichester  did  not  follow,  but  the  next  day,  on 
the  pavement  not  far  from  the  museum,  he  stopped 
once  more  in  front  of  the  professor  with  a  "  Good 
afternoon." 

"  Good  day,"  said  Stepton. 

"  Since  you  know  who  I  am,"  began  the  curate, 
"  and  I  have  heard  so  much  of  you,  I  hope  you 
will  forgive  me  for  asking  you  something." 

"  Certainly." 

"  What  is  it  in  me  which  has  attracted  your  at- 
tention?" 

"  I  wish  I  knew,"  returned  the  professor. 

"  You  wish  you  knew!  Do  you  mean  that  you 
don't  know  ?  " 

11 1  don't  know  at  all." 

"  But  —  but  —  you  —  I  was  not  wrong  in  feel- 
ing sure  that  you  were  —  that  something  in  me  had 
aroused  your  attention?  " 

"  Not  wrong  at  all;  but  '  something  '  is  not  the 
word." 

"What  is  the  word?" 

"  Everything.  Everything  in  you  rouses  my 
attention,  Mr.  Chichester.  But  I  can't  think 
why." 

"  Did  you  know  I  was  Mr.  Harding's  curate  the 
first  time  you  met  me?  " 

'  Yes ;  I  had  seen  vou  at  St.  Joseph's  once  or 
192 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

twice  when  I  came  to  hear  your  rector  preach. 
You  did  n't  interest  me  at  all  then,  I  'm  bound  to 
say." 

Chichester  stood  in  silence  for  a  minute.  Then 
he  said: 

"  I  might  walk  a  little  way  back  with  you,  if 
you  have  no  objection." 

Stepton  jerked  his  head  in  assent.  And  so  the 
acquaintance  of  these  two  men  was  begun.  Their 
first  conversation  was  a  delight  to  the  professor. 
After  a  short  silence  the  curate  said: 

"  I  could  not  help  seeing  each  time  we  have  met 
how  your  attention  was  fastened  upon  me." 

"  Just  so,"  rejoined  Stepton,  making  no  apology. 

"  And  I  really  think,"  continued  Chichester, 
with  a  sort  of  pressure  — "  I  really  think  I  am  en- 
titled to  ask  for  some  explanation  of  the  matter." 

"  Certainly  you  are." 

"  Well  ?  "  He  paused,  then  said  again,  "  Well, 
Professor  Stepton?  " 

"  I  'm  afraid  I  Ve  nothing  to  tell  you,  I  like  to 
stick  to  facts." 

"  I  only  ask  you  for  facts." 

"  The  facts  amount  to  very  little.  Coming 
from  the  museum  I  ran  across  a  man.  You  were 
the  man.  My  attention  was  riveted  at  once.  I 
said  to  myself,  *  I  must  see  that  man  again.' 

13  193 


THE  DWELLER 

Next  day  I  took  my  chance.  I  had  luck.  You 
were  there  at  pretty  much  the  same  hour." 

"  I  always  come  from  St.  Joseph's  — " 

"  Exactly.  And  so  it 's  happened  on  several 
days.  And  that 's  all  I  have  to  tell  you." 

"  But  surely  you  can  indicate  why  — " 

"  No,  I  can't.  All  I  can  say  is  that  for  some 
reason,  quite  inexplicable  by  me,  if  I  had  come  upon 
you  in  a  crowd  of  a  thousand,  I  should  have  had 
to  attend  to  you." 

"  That 's  very  strange,"  said  Chichester,  in  a 
low  voice;  "  very  strange  indeed." 

"  There  's  a  reason  for  it,  of  course.  There  's 
a  reason  for  everything,  but  very  often  it  is  n't 
found."  At  this  point  the  professor  thrust  his 
head  toward  Chichester,  and  added,  "  you  can't 
tell  me  the  reason,  I  suppose  ?  " 

Chichester  looked  much  startled  and  taken  aback. 

UI—  oh,  no!" 

"  Then  we  must  get  along  in  the  dark  and  make 
the  best  of  it." 

Having  said  this,  the  professor  abruptly  dis- 
missed the  subject  and  began  to  talk  of  other 
things.  When  he  chose  he  could  be  almost  charm- 
ing. He  chose  on  this  occasion.  And  when  at 
last  he  hailed  a  bus,  declaring  that  he  was  due  at 
home,  Chichester  expressed  a  hope  that  some  day 

194 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

he  would  find  himself  in  Hornton  Street,  and  visit 
number  43. 

The  professor  assented,  and  was  carried  west- 
ward. 

Several  days  passed,  but  he  did  not  find  himself 
near  Horton  Street,  and  he  had  ceased  to  visit  the 
South  Kensington  Museum.  Then  the  curate 
wrote  and  invited  him  to  tea.  Despite  a  pretence 
at  indifference  in  the  phraseology  of  the  note,  the 
professor  discovered  a  deep  anxiety  in  the  writing. 
Among  other  things  he  had  studied,  and  minutely, 
graphology. 

He  sat  down  and  very  politely  refused  the  invita- 
tion. 

Then  Chichester  came  to  call  on  him,  and  caught 
him  at  home. 

It  was  six  o'clock  in  the  evening,  and  the  heavens 
were  opened.  Agnes,  the  Scotch  parlor-maid  who 
claimed  to  have  second  sight,  opened  the  door  to 
Chichester,  who,  speaking  from  beneath  a  drip- 
ping umbrella,  inquired  for  the  professor. 

"  He  's  in,  sir,  but  he  's  busy." 

"  Could  you  take  him  my  card?  " 

Agnes  took  it,  much  to  her  own  surprise,  and 
carried  it  to  the  professor's  study. 

"  A  gentleman,  sir." 

"  I  told  you,  Agnes  — " 
195 


"  I  could  n't  say  no  to  him,  sir." 

"  Why  not  ?     Here  !  "  he  took  the  card. 

"Why  not?"  he  repeated,  when  he  had  read 
the  name. 

"  It  was  n't  in  me  to,  sir." 

"  Well,  then  I  shall  have  to  see  him.  Show 
him  up.  But  never  again  will  I  call  you  by  the 
proud  name  of  Cerberus." 

So,  putting  the  onus  upon  Agnes,  the  professor 
yielded,  murmuring  to  himself: 

"  It  was  n't  in  her  to !  Very  expressive !  And 
Cerberus,  by  the  way,  was  always  ready  to  let  'em 
in.  It  was  when  they  wanted  to  get  out  that  — 
Good  evening.  I  hope  you  don't  mind  climbing." 

"  Thank  you,  no,"  said  Chichester. 

"  Sit  down." 

"  I  am  afraid  I  disturb  you." 

"  I  'm  bound  to  say  you  do.  But  what  does  it 
matter?" 

"  As  you  did  n't  find  your  way  to  Hornton 
Street,  I  thought  I  would  venture." 

"  Very  good  of  you.     This  is  a  soft  chair." 

Chichester  sat  down.  It  had  been  evident  to 
Stepton  from  the  moment  when  his  visitor  came  in 
that  he  was  in  great  agony  of  mind.  There  was 
in  his  face  a  sort  of  still  and  abject  misery  which 
Stepton  thought  exceedingly  promising.  As  he 

196 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

turned  round,  leaning  his  sharp  elbow  on  his  writ- 
ing-table, Stepton  was  considering  how  to  exploit 
this  misery  for  the  furthering  of  his  purpose. 

"  I  want  you  to  tell  me  something,"  Chichester 
began.  "  I  want  to  know  why  your  attention  was 
first  attracted  to  me.  I  feel  sure  that  you  must 
be  able  to  give  a  reason.  What  is  it?  " 

"  Well,  now,  I  wish  I  could,"  returned  Stepton. 

To  himself  he  gave  the  swift  admonition, 
"  Play  for  hysteria,  and  see  what  comes  of  it." 

"  I  wish  I  could;  but  it 's  a  mystery  to  me.  But 
now  —  let 's  see." 

He  knitted  his  heavy  brows. 

"  A  long  while  ago  I  picked  a  man  out,  met  him 
in  a  crowd,  at  the  Crystal  Palace,  followed  him 
about,  could  n't  get  away  from  him.  That  same 
evening  he  was  killed  on  the  underground.  I  read 
of  it  in  the  paper,  went  to  see  the  body,  and  there 
was  my  man." 

"  Do  you  claim  to  have  some  special  faculty?" 
asked  Chichester. 

"  Oh,  dear,  no.  Besides,  you  have  n't  been 
killed  on  the  underground  —  yet." 

A  curious  expression  that  seemed  mingled  of 
disappointment  and  of  contempt  passed  across  Chi- 
chester's  face.  Stepton  saw  it  and  told  himself, 
"  No  hysteria." 

197 


THE  DWELLER 

"  Possibly  the  reason  may  be  a  more  intellectual 
one,"  observed  the  professor.  "  I  hear  you  have 
been  preaching  some  very  remarkable  sermons.  I 
have  n't  heard  them.  Still,  others  who  have  may 
have  '  suggestioned  '  me.  Three  quarters  of  any 
man's  fame,  you  know,  are  due  to  mere  sugges- 
tion." 

"  You  're  not  the  man  to  be  the  prey  of  that,  I 
fancy  —  not  the  easy  prey,  at  any  rate." 

"  Then  we  're  left  again  with  no  explanation  at 
all,  unless,  as  I  believe  I  hinted  once  before,  you 
can  give  us  one." 

Chichester  looked  down;  without  raising  his 
eyes  he  presently  said  in  a  constrained  voice : 

"  If  I  were  to  give  you  one  you  might  not  ac- 
cept it." 

"  Probably  not,"  said  Stepton,  briskly.  "  In 
my  life  I  Ve  been  offered  a  great  many  explana- 
tions, and  I  'm  bound  to  say  I  Ve  accepted  re- 
markably few." 

Chichester  looked  up  quickly,  and  with  the  air 
of  a  man  nettled. 

"  You  '11  forgive  me,  I  hope,  for  saying  that  you 
scientific  men  very  often  seem  to  have  a  great  con- 
tempt for  those  who  are  more  mystically  minded," 
he  observed. 

"  I  Ve  hit  the  line !  "  thought  Stepton,  with  a 
198 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

touch  of  exultation,  as  he  dropped  out  a  negli- 
gent, "  Forgive  you  —  of  course." 

"  I  dare  say  it  seems  to  you  extraordinary  that 
any  man  should  be  able  to  be  a  clergyman, 
genuinely  believing  what  he  professes  and  what  he 
preaches." 

"  Very  few  things  seem  to  me  extraordinary." 

"  Perhaps  because  you  are  skeptical  of  so  much 
in  which  others  believe." 

"  That  may  be  it.     Quite  likely." 

"  And  yet  is  n't  there  a  saying  of  Newton's, 
*  A  little  science  sends  man  far  away  from  God, 
a  great  deal  of  science  brings  man  back  to  God  ?  ' 
You  '11  forgive  the  apparent  rudeness.  All  I  mean 
is—" 

"  That  the  sooner  I  try  to  get  more  science  the 
better  for  me,"  snapped  out  Stepton,  brusquely  in- 
terrupting his  visitor,  but  without  heat.  "  Let  me 
tell  you  that  I  pass  the  greater  part  of  my  time  in 
that  very  effort  —  to  acquire  more  exact  knowledge 
than  I  possess.  Well  —  now  then !  Now  then !  " 

Turning  round  still  more  toward  the  curate  he 
looked  almost  as  if  he  were  about  to  "  square  up  " 
to  him.  A  dry  aggressiveness  informed  him,  and 
his  voice  had  a  rasping  timbre  as  he  continued: 

"  But  I  decline  to  take  leaps  in  the  dark  like  — " 
Here  he  mentioned  a  well-known  man  of  science  — 

199 


THE  DWELLER 

"  and  I  decline  to  reject  evidence  like  — "  Here 
he  named  a  professor  even  more  famous. 

The  mention  of  the  last  name  evidently  excited 
Chichester's  curiosity. 

"What  evidence  has  he  rejected?"  he  ex- 
claimed. 

"  Last  week  he  held  a  sitting  to  examine  the 
pretensions  of  Mrs.  Groeber,  the  German  medium. 
Westcott  was  also  present,  a  man  on  whose  word 
the  very  devil  —  if  there  is  such  a  person,  which 
I  don't  yet  know  —  would  rely.  Some  apparently 
remarkable  phenomena  occurred. — "  Here  he 
mentioned  the  professor  —  "was  convinced  that 
they  could  only  have  been  brought  about  by  super- 
normal means.  Unfortunately,  or  fortunately, 
Westcott  had  seen  the  trickery  which  produced 
them.  When  the  seance  was  over  he  explained 

what  it  was  to .  What  did  this  so-called  man 

of  science  do?  Refused  to  accept  Westcott's  evi- 
dence, clung  to  his  own  ridiculous  belief, — savage's 
fetish  belief,  nothing  more, — and  will  include  the 
Groeber  manifestations  as  evidence  of  supernormal 
powers  in  his  next  volume.  And  I  say,  I  say  " — 
he  raised  his  forefinger  — "  that  clergymen  are  do- 
ing much  the  same  thing  pretty  nearly  every  day 
of  their  lives.  Seek  for  truth  quietly,  inexorably, 
and  you  may  get  it;  but  don't  prod  men  into  false- 

200 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

hood,  or  try  to,  as  you  Ve  been  trying  to  in  this 
very  room." 

"  I!  "  cried  out  Chichester. 

'  You.  I  told  you  I  had  no  reason  to  give  you 
as  to  why  you  attracted  my  attention  in  the  street. 
Were  you  satisfied  with  that?  Not  at  all.  You 
must  needs  come  here, — very  glad  to  see  you ! — 
and  say,  '  I  feel  sure  you  must  be  able  to  give  me 
a  reason.  What  is  it?'  You  clamor  for  a  lie. 
And  that 's  what  men  are  perpetually  doing  — 
clamoring  for  lies.  And  they  get  'em,  from 
clergymen,  from  mediums,  from  so-called  scientific 
men,  and  from  the  dear  delightful  politicians. 
There  now!  " 

And  the  professor  dropped  his  forefinger  and 
flung  himself  back  in  his  chair. 

"  And  " —  Chichester  in  his  turn  leaned  forward, 
but  he  spoke  with  some  hesitation  — "  and  suppose 
I  were  to  tell  you  a  truth,  a  strange,  an  amazing 
truth?" 

He  paused. 

"  Go  on !  "  said  the  professor. 

"Wouldn't  you  do  just  the  opposite?  You 
say  men  accept  lies.  I  say  you  would  probably  re- 
ject truth." 

"  Cela  depend.  What  you  believed  to  be  truth 
might  not  be  truth  at  all.  It  might  be  hysteria, 

20 1 


THE  DWELLER 

it  might  be  nervous  dyspepsia,  it  might  be  over- 
work, it  might  be  a  dozen  things." 

"  Just  what  I  say,"  exclaimed  Chichester. 
"  Men  of  science  delight  in  nothing  so  much  as  in 
finding  excuses  for  rejecting  the  greatest  truths." 

"  Do  you  mean  the  greatest  truths  in  the  posses- 
sion of  Anglican  clergymen  ?  " 

"  I  dare  say  you  think  it  impossible  that  a 
clergyman  should  know  more  than  a  scientific 
man?" 

"  Oh,  no.  But  he  's  out  for  faith,  and  I  hap- 
pen to  be  out  for  facts.  I  like  hard  facts  that  can 
be  set  down  with  a  fountain-pen  in  my  note-book, 
and  that,  taken  together,  are  convincing  to  all  men 
of  reasonable  intellect.  Very  dull,  no  doubt;  but 
there  you  have  it.  Clergymen,  as  a  rule,  move  in 
what  are  called  lofty  regions  —  the  realms  of 
heart,  conscience,  and  what  not.  Now,  I  'm  very 
fond  of  the  region  of  gray  matter  —  gray  matter." 

"  And  yet  you  are  one  of  the  chief  of  the  in- 
vestigators in  the  field  of  psychical  research." 

"  Do  you  think  there  's  no  room  for  pencil  and 
note-book  there?  What  about  Podmore, — 
there  's  a  loss !  —  and  a  dozen  others  ?  Psychic 
matters  have  got  to  be  lifted  out  of  the  hands  of 
credulous  fetish-worshiping  fools,  and  the  sooner 
the  better." 

202 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

"  It 's  easy  to  call  people  credulous,"  said  Chi- 
chester,  with  decided  heat.  "  By  being  so  readily 
contemptuous,  Professor  Stepton,  you  may  often 
keep  back  evidence  that  might  be  of  inestimable 
value  to  your  cause.  A  man  in  possession  of  a 
great  truth  may  keep  it  to  himself  for  fear  of  be- 
ing laughed  at  or  called  a  liar." 

"Then  all  I  can  say  is  that  he's  a  coward  — 
an  arrant  abject  coward." 

Chichester  sat  in  silence.  Again  he  was  look- 
ing down.  Now  that  his  eyes  were  hidden  by 
their  drooping  lids,  and  that  he  was  no  longer 
speaking,  the  sadness  of  his  aspect  seemed  more 
profound.  It  dignified  his  rather  insignificant 
features.  It  even  seemed,  in  some  mysterious  way, 
to  infuse  power  into  his  slight  and  unimportant 
figure.  After  sitting  thus  for  perhaps  three 
minutes  he  raised  his  head  and  got  up  from  his 
chair. 

"  I  must  not  take  up  your  time  any  longer,"  he 
said.  "  It  was  very  good  of  you  to  see  me  at  all." 
He  held  out  his  hand,  which  Stepton  took,  and  ad- 
ded, "  I  '11  just  say  one  thing." 

"Do!" 

"  It  is  n't  always  cowardice  which  causes  a  man 
to  keep  a  secret  —  a  secret  which  might  be  of 
value  to  the  world." 

203 


THE  DWELLER 

"  I  never  said  it  was." 

"No;  but  still  —  you  spoke  just  now  of  my 
sermons.  I  preached  one  not  very  long  ago  which 
I  have  typed  myself.  If  I  send  it  to  you  do  you 
think  you  could  find  time  to  read  it?  " 

"  Certainly." 

"  I  will  send  it,  then.     Good  night." 

"  I  '11  come  down  with  you." 

The  professor  let  Chichester  out.  The  rain 
was  still  falling  in  torrents.  Shrouded  in  his 
mackintosh,  protected  by  his  umbrella,  the  curate 
walked  away.  Looking  after  him,  Stepton 
thought : 

"  Very  odd  1  It  is  n't  only  in  the  face.  Even 
the  figure,  all  covered  up  and  umbrella-roofed, 
seems  to  have  something  —  he  '11  send  me  the  ser- 
mon of  the  man  and  his  double  to-morrow." 

And  on  the  morrow  that  sermon  came  by  the 
first  post.  Having  read  it,  the  professor  promptly 
returned  it  to  Chichester  with  the  following 
note: 

The  White  House,  Westminster. 
Dear  Mr.  Chichester: 

Very  glad  to  have  had  the  opportunity  of  reading  your 
interesting  discourse.  If  I  had  not  known  it  was  yours, 
and  a  sermon,  I  should  have  said  "  a  posthumous  work  of 
Robert  Louis  Stevenson."  It  does  credit  to  your  imag- 

204 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

ination.     If  you  care  to  publish,  I  should  suggest  "  The 
Cornhill."     I    know  nothing  about   their   terms. 

Yours  faithfully, 

G.  R.  E.  Stepton. 

By  return  of  post,  there  came  an  urgent  invita- 
tion to  the  professor  to  visit  Chichester's  rooms  in 
Hornton  Street,  "  to  continue  a  discussion  which 
has  a  special  interest  for  me  at  this  moment." 

"  Discussion !  "  thought  Stepton,  sitting  down  to 
accept.  "  What  my  man  wants  is  for  me  to  goad 
him  into  revelation ;  and  I  '11  do  it." 

The  professor  knew  enough  of  psychology  to  be 
aware  that  in  the  very  depths  of  the  human  heart 
there  is  a  desire  which  may  perhaps  be  called  so- 
cialistic —  the  desire  to  share  truth  with  one's  fel- 
low-men. Chichester  was  scourged  by  this  de- 
sire. But  whether  what  he  wished  to  share  was 
truth,  or  only  what  he  believed  to  be  truth,  was 
the  question.  Anyhow,  Stepton  was  determined  to 
make  him  speak.  And  he  set  off  to  Hornton 
Street  little  doubting  that  he  would  find  means  to 
carry  his  determination  into  effect. 

He  arrived  about  half-past  five.  He  did  not 
turn  the  corner  into  Kensington  High  Street  on 
his  homeward  way  until  darkness  had  fallen,  hav- 
ing passed  through  some  of  the  most  extraordi- 
nary moments  that  had  ever  been  his. 

205 


THE  DWELLER 

When  he  was  shown  into  the  curate's  sitting- 
room,  his  first  remark  was : 

"  Sent  that  very  interesting  story  to  '  The  Corn- 
hill' yet?" 

"  I  don't  think  you  quite  understand,  Professor," 
replied  Chichester.  "  I  did  not  type  it  with  a 
view  to  sending  it  in  anywhere  for  publication. 
You  '11  have  tea  with  me,  I  hope  ?  Here  it  is, 
all  ready." 

11  Thank  you." 

"Oh,  Ellen!" 

Chichester  went  to  the  door,  and  Stepton  heard 
the  words,  "  Nobody,  you  understand,"  following 
on  a  subdued  murmuring. 

"  And  Mr.  Harding,  sir?  "  said  the  maid's  voice 
outside. 

"  Mr.  Harding  won't  come  to-day.  That  will 
do,  Ellen." 

The  professor  heard  steps  descending.  His  host 
shut  the  door  and  returned. 

"  You  typed  it  for  your  own  use  ?  "  said  Stepton. 

"  That  sermon?  Yes.  I  wished  to  keep  it  by 
me  as  a  record." 

He  sat  down,  and  poured  out  the  tea. 

"  A  record  of  an  imagined  experience.  Exactly. 
Then  why  not  publish?  " 

"  It  is  not  fiction." 

206 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

"  Well,  it  is  n't  fact." 

The  professor  drank  his  tea,  looking  at  his  host 
narrowly  over  the  cup. 

"  Do  you  say  such  an  experience  as  that  de- 
scribed in  my  sermon  is  impossible  ?  " 

"  Do  you  say  it  is  possible?  " 

"  If  I  were  to  say  so  would  you  believe  me?  " 

"  Certainly  not,  unless  I  could  make  an  investi- 
gation and  personally  satisfy  myself  that  what  you 
said  was  true.  You  would  n't  expect  anything 
else,  I  'm  sure." 

"  You  can  believe  nothing  on  the  mere  word 
of  another?  " 

"  Very  little.  I  am  an  investigator.  I  look  for 
proof." 

"  With  your  pencil  in  one  hand,  your  note-book 
in  the  other." 

In  Chichester's  last  remark  there  was  a  note  of 
sarcasm  which  thoroughly  roused  Stepton,  for  it 
sounded  like  the  sarcasm  of  knowledge  addressed 
to  ignorance.  Stepton  had  a  temper.  This 
touch  of  superiority,  not  vulgar,  but  very  definite, 
fell  on  it  like  a  lash. 

"  Now  I  '11  go  for  the  reverend  gentleman  of 
St.  Joseph's !  "  he  thought. 

And  for  a  moment  he  forgot  his  aim  in  remem- 
bering himself.  Afterward,  in  thinking  matters 

207 


THE  DWELLER 

over,  he  offered  a  pinch  of  incense  at  the  altar  of 
his  egoism. 

"  So,  the  modern  clergyman  still  believes  in  slip- 
slop, does  he?"  he  exclaimed  in  his  most  aggres- 
sive manner.  "  Even  now  has  n't  he  learnt  the 
value  of  the  matter-of-fact?  The  clergyman  is 
the  doctor  of  the  soul,  is  n't  he  ?  And  the  doctor, 
isn't  he  the  clergyman  of  the  body?  I  wonder, 
I  do  wonder,  how  long  the  average  doctor  would 
keep  together  his  practice  if  he  worked  with  no 
more  precision  than  the  average  clergyman.  The 
contempt  of  the  pencil  and  note-book!  The  con- 
tempt of  proper  care  in  getting  together  and  co- 
ordinating facts !  The  contempt  of  proof  —  the 
appeal  to  reason !  And  so  we  get  to  the  contempt 
of  reason.  And  let  me  tell  you  — "  he  struck  the 
tea-table  with  his  lean  hand  till  the  curate's  cups 
jumped  — "  that  scarcely  ever  have  I  heard  a  ser- 
mon in  which  was  not  to  be  found  somewhere  the 
preacher's  contempt  for  reason,  the  bread  of  the  in- 
tellect of  man." 

"  The  soul  is  not  the  intellect." 

"  Don't  you  think  it  higher?  " 

"  I  do." 

"  And  so  you  put  it  on  slops!  " 

The  professor  got  up  from  his  chair,  and  be- 
gan to  sidle  up  and  down  the  small  room. 

208 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

"  You  put  it  on  slops,  as  if  it  were  a  thing  with 
a  disordered  stomach.  That 's  your  way  of  show- 
ing it  respect.  You  approach  the  shrine  with  an  of- 
fering of  water  gruel.  Now  look  ye  here!" — 
The  professor  paused  beside  the  tea-table  — 
"  The  soul  wants  its  bread,  depends  upon  it,  as 
much  as  the  body,  and  the  church  that  is  free  with 
the  loaves  is  the  church  to  get  a  real  hold  on 
real  men.  Flummery  is  no  good  to  anybody. 
Rhetoric  's  no  good  to  anybody.  Claptrap  and 
slipslop  only  make  heads  swim  and  stomachs  turn. 
The  pencil  and  note-book,  observation  and  the  tak- 
ing down  of  it,  these  bring  knowledge  to  the  doors 
of  men.  And  when  you  sneer  at  them,  you  sneer 
at  bread,  on  the  eating  of  which  —  or  its  equiva- 
lent, basis-nourishment  —  life  depends." 

"  I  wonder  whether  you,  and  such  as  you,  really 
know  on  what  the  true  life  of  the  soul  depends," 
said  Chichester,  with  an  almost  dreadful  quietness. 

The  professor  sat  down  again. 

"  Such  as  I  ?  "  he  said.  "  You  are  good  enough 
to  do  me  the  honor  of  putting  me  in  a  class?  " 

"  As  you  have  so  far  honored  me,"  returned  Chi- 
chester. 

"  Ha !  "  ejaculated  Stepton. 

He  had  quite  got  the  better  of  his  egoism,  but 
he  by  no  means  regretted  his  outburst. 
»*  209 


THE  DWELLER 

"  Do  you  claim  to  stand  outside  the  ranks  of  the 
clergy?  "  he  asked. 

"  Do  you  claim  to  stand  outside  the  ranks  of 
the  scientists?  " 

"  Oh,  dear,  no.     And  now  —  you  ?  " 

Chichester  said  nothing  for  a  moment.  Then, 
lifting  up  his  head,  and  gazing  at  the  professor 
with  a  sort  of  sternness  of  determination,  he  said : 

"  Remember  this !  You  yourself  told  me  that 
in  a  crowd  of  a  thousand  you  must  have  fixed  your 
attention  on  me." 

For  a  moment  the  professor  had  it  in  his  mind 
to  say  that  this  statement  of  his  had  been  a  lie  in- 
vented to  make  an  impression  on  Chichester.  But 
he  resisted  the  temptation  to  score  —  and  lose. 
He  preferred  not  to  score,  and  to  win,  if  possible. 

"  I  did,"  he  said. 

"  Could  this  be  so  if  I  were  like  other  men, 
other  clergymen?  " 

"  Well,  then,  what  is  the  mighty  difference  be- 
tween you  and  your  reverend  brethren  —  between 
you,  let  us  say,  and  your  rector,  Mr.  Harding?  " 

Very  casually  and  jerkily  the  professor  threw  out 
this  question. 

Not  casually  did  Chichester  receive  it.  He 
moved  almost  like  a  man  who  had  been  unex- 

2IO 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

pectedly  struck,  then  seemed  to  recover  himself, 
and  to  nerve  himself  for  some  ordeal.  Leaning 
forward,  and  holding  the  edge  of  the  table  with  one 
hand,  he  said: 

"  How  well  do  you  know  Hr.  Harding?  " 

"  Pretty  well.     Not  intimately." 

"  You  have  seen  him  since  he  —  altered?  " 

"  I  saw  him  only  the  other  day  when  I  was  at  a 
specialist's  in  Harley  Street." 

"A  specialist's?" 

"  For  nervous  dyspepsia." 

Again  the  look  of  contempt  flickered  over  Chi- 
chester's  face. 

"  Do  you  think  the  alteration  in  Mr.  Harding 
may  be  due  to  nervous  dyspepsia?  " 

"  Probably.  There  are  few  maladies  that  so 
sap  the  self-confidence  of  a  man." 

Chichester  laughed. 

For  the  first  time  since  he  had  entered  the  lit- 
tle room  the  professor  felt  a  cold  sensation  of  creep- 
ing uneasiness. 

"  Apparently  you  don't  agree  with  me,"  he  said. 

"  I  am  not  a  doctor,  and  I  know  very  little  about 
that  matter." 

"  Then  I  'm  bound  to  say  I  don't  know  what  you 
find  to  laugh  at." 

211 


THE  DWELLER 

"  For  a  man  who  has  spent  so  much  time  in 
psychical  research  you  seem  to  have  a  rather 
material  outlook  upon  — " 

uMr.  Harding?" 

"  And  all  that  he  represents." 

"  Suppose  we  stick  to  Mr.  Harding,"  said  the 
professor,  grittily.  "  He  is  typical  enough,  even 
if  you  are  not." 

"  In  what  respect  do  you  consider  Mr.  Hard- 
ing typical?  " 

"  I  am  speaking  of  the  Harding  before  the  fall 
into  the  abysses  of  nervous  dyspepsia." 

"  Very  well.  In  what  respects  was  Mr.  Hard- 
ing typical  ?  " 

"  In  the  sublime  self-confidence  with  which  he 
proclaimed  as  facts,  things  that  have  never  been 
proved  to  be  facts." 

"  Do  men  want  facts?  "  said  Chichester,  almost 
as  one  speaking  alone  to  himself. 

"  I  do.  I  want  nothing  else.  Possibly  Mr. 
Harding  had  none  to  give  me.  I  don't  blame 
him." 

"  Perhaps  it  is  a  greater  thing  to  give  men  faith 
than  to  give  them  facts." 

"  Give  them  the  first  by  giving  them  the  second, 
if  you  can!  And  that,  by  the  way,  is  the  last 
thing  the  average  clergyman  is  able  to  do." 

212 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

Chichester  sat  silent  for  nearly  a  minute  look- 
ing at  the  professor  with  a  strange  expression,  al- 
most fiery,  yet  meditative,  as  if  he  were  trying  to 
appraise  him,  were  weighing  him  in  a  balance. 

"  Professor,"  he  said  at  last,  "  I  suppose  your 
passion  for  facts  has  led  men  to  put  a  great  deal 
of  faith  in  you.  Has  n't  it?" 

"  I  dare  say  my  word  carries  some  weight.  I 
really  don't  know,"  responded  Stepton,  with  an 
odd  hint  of  something  like  modesty. 

"  I  had  thought  of  Mailing  first,"  almost  mur- 
mured Chichester. 

"  What 's  that  about  Mailing?  " 

"  I  think  he  would  have  accepted  what  I  have 
to  give  more  readily  than  you  would.  There 
seems  to  me  something  in  him  which  stretches  out 
arms  toward  those  things  in  which  mystics  believe. 
In  you  there  seems  to  me  something  which  would 
almost  rather  repel  such  things." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  am  quiescent.  I 
neither  seek  to  summon  nor  to  repel." 

"I  couldn't  tell  Mailing,"  said  Chichester. 
"  His  readiness  stopped  me.  It  struck  me  like  a 
blow." 

"  Mailing  prides  himself  on  being  severely 
neutral  in  mind." 

"  And  you  on  being  skeptical?  " 
213 


THE  DWELLER 

"  I  await  facts." 

"  Shall  I  give  you  some  strange  facts,  the 
strangest  perhaps  you  have  ever  met  with?  " 

Stepton  smiled  dryly. 

"  You  '11  forgive  me,  but  some  such  remark  has 
been  the  prelude  to  so  many  figments." 

"Figments?" 

"  Of  the  imagination." 

An  expression  of  anger  —  almost  like  a  noble 
anger  it  seemed  —  transformed  Chichester's  face. 
It  was  as  a  fine  wrath  which  looked  down  from  a 
height,  and  in  an  instant  it  melted  into  pity. 

"  How  much  you  must  have  missed  because  of 
your  skepticism !  "  he  said.  "  But  I  shall  not  let 
it  affect  me.  You  are  a  man  of  note-book  and 
pencil.  Will  you  promise  me  one  thing?  Will 
you  give  me  your  word  not  to  share  what  I  shall 
tell  you  with  any  one,  unless,  later  on,  I  am  willing 
that  you  should?  " 

"  Oh,  dear,  yes !  "  said  the  professor. 

And  again  he  smiled.  For  even  now  he  be- 
lieved the  curate  to  be  wavering,  swayed  by  con- 
flicting emotions,  and  felt  sure  that  a  flick  of  the 
whip  to  his  egoism  would  be  likely  to  hasten  the 
coming  of  what  he,  the  professor,  wanted. 

A  loud  call  rose  up  from  the  street.  A  wander- 
ing vender  of  something  was  crying  his  ware.  In 

214 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

his  voice  was  a  sound  of  fierce  melancholy.     Chi- 
chester  went  to  the  window  and  shut  it  down. 

"  I  wish  it  was  night,"  he  said  as  he  turned. 

The  professor  jerked  out  his  watch. 

"  It  must  be  getting  late,"  he  observed.  "  Past 
six!  by  Jove!  " 

He  made  an  abrupt  movement. 

"  What  ?  "  said  Chichester.     "  You  are  going  1  " 

He  came  up  to  the  table. 

"  Sometimes  I  think,"  he  said,  "  that  men  hate 
and  dread  nothing  as  they  hate  and  dread  facts 
which  may  upset  the  theories  they  cherish." 

"  You  're  perfectly  right.  Well,  very  glad  to 
have  seen  you  in  your  own  room."  The  professor 
got  up.  "  By  their  rooms  shall  ye  know  them." 
He  glanced  round. 

"  Ah,  I  see  you  have  Rossetti's  delightfully 
anemic  Madonna,  and  Holman  Hunt's  '  Light  of 
the  World.'  A  day  or  two  ago  I  was  talking  to 
a  lady  who  pronounced  that — "  he  extended  his 
finger  toward  the  Hunt  — "  the  greatest  work  of 
art  produced  in  the  last  hundred  years.  Her 
reason?  Its  comforting  quality.  I  am  sure  you 
agree  with  her.  Good-by." 

He  made  a  sidling  movement  toward  the  door. 
Perhaps  it  was  that  movement  which  finally  de- 
cided the  curate  to  speak. 

215 


THE  DWELLER 

"  Professor,"  he  said,  "  I  don't  want  you  to  go 
yet." 

"  Why  not?  "  jerked  out  Stepton,  with  one  hand 
on  the  door-knob. 

"  You  collect  '  cases.'  I  have  a  case  for  you. 
You  are  a  skeptic :  you  say  men  should  be  brought 
to  faith  by  facts.  Sit  down.  I  will  give  you 
some  facts." 

The  professor  came  slowly  back,  looking  dry 
and  cold,  and  sat  down  by  the  table,  facing  the 
Rossetti  Madonna. 

"  Always  ready  for  facts,"  he  said. 


216 


XI 

"T7"OU  have  heard  of  doubles,  of  course,  Pro- 

X   fessor?  "  said  Chichester,  leaning  his  arms  on 

the  table  and  putting  his  hands  one  against  the 

other,  as  if  making  a  physical  effort  to  be  very 

calm. 

"  Of  course.  There  was  an  account  of  one  in 
that  sermon  of  yours." 

"  Have  you  ever  seen  a  double?  " 

"  No;  not  to  my  knowledge." 

"  I  suppose  you  disbelieve  in  them?  " 

"  I  have  no  reason  to  believe  in  them.  I  have 
not  collected  enough  evidence  to  convince  me  that 
there  are  such  manifestations." 

"  You  know  a  double  at  this  moment." 

"  Do  I,  indeed?  And  may  I  ask  the  manifes- 
tation's name?  " 

"  Marcus  Harding." 

"  Marcus  Harding  is  a  double,  you  say. 
Whose?" 

"  Mine,"  said  Chichester  in  a  low  voice. 

He  clasped  and  unclasped  his  hands. 
217 


THE  DWELLER 

11 1  don't  understand  you,"  said  Stepton,  rather 
disdainfully. 

"  I  will  try  to  make  you."  And  Chichester  be- 
gan to  speak,  at  first  in  a  low,  level  voice.  "  That 
sermon  of  mine,"  he  said,  "  was  a  sort  of  shadow 
of  a  truth  that  I  wanted  to  reveal, —  that  I  dared 
not  fully  reveal.  Already  I  had  tried  to  tell 
Evelyn  Mailing  something  of  it.  I  had  failed. 
When  the  moment  came,  when  Mailing  was  actu- 
ally before  me,  I  could  not  speak  out.  His  mind 
was  trying  to  track  the  truth  that  was  in  me.  He 
got,  as  it  were,  upon  the  trail.  Once  he  even 
struck  into  the  truth.  Then  he  went  away  to 
Marcus  Harding.  I  remained  in  London. 
When  I  knew  that  those  two  were  together  I  felt 
a  sort  of  jealous  fear  of  Mailing.  For  there  was 
pity  in  him.  Despite  his  intense  curiosity  he  had 
a  capacity  for  pity.  I  realized  that  it  might  pos- 
sibly interfere  with  —  with  something  that  I  was 
doing.  And  I  recalled  Marcus  Harding  to  Lon- 
don. From  that  moment  I  have  avoided  Mai- 
ling. I  could  never  tell  him.  But  you,  hard 
searcher  after  truth  as  you  are  —  you  could  never 
find  it  in  you  to  drag  away  another  from  the 
contemplation  of  truth.  Could  you?  Could 


you? 


Probably  not,"  said  Stepton.     "  I  usually  let 
218 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

folks  alone  even  when  they  're  glaring  at  false- 
hood.    Ha!" 

He  settled  himself  in  his  chair,  looking  sidewise 
toward  Chichester. 

'  You,  like  every  one  else,  have  noticed  the  tre- 
mendous change  in  Marcus  Harding,"  Chichester 
went  on.  "  That  change,  the  whole  of  that 
change,  is  solely  owing  to  me." 

"  Very  glad  to  have  your  explanation  of  that." 

"  I  am  going  to  give  it  you.  The  beginning 
of  that  change  came  about  through  the  action  of 
Marcus  Harding.  He  wished  for  facts  that  are, 
perhaps, —  indeed,  probably, —  withheld  deliber- 
ately from  the  cognizance  of  man.  You  have 
sneered  at  those  who  live  by  faith,  you  have 
sneered  at  priests.  Well,  you  can  let  that  Marcus 
Harding  go  free  of  your  sarcasm.  Although  a 
clergyman  he  was  not  a  faithful  man.  And  he 
wanted  facts  to  convince  him  that  there  was  a  life 
beyond  the  grave.  Henry  Chichester  — " 

"  You !     You !  "  interjected  Stepton,  harshly. 

"  I,  then,  came  into  his  life.  He  thought  he 
would  use  me  to  further  his  purpose.  He  con- 
strained me  to  sittings  such  as  you  have  often  taken 
part  in,  with  a  view  to  sending  me  into  a  trance 
and  employing  me,  when  in  that  condition,  as  a 
means  of  communication  with  the  other  world  — - 

219 


THE  DWELLER 

if  there  was  one.     We  sat  secretly  in  this  room, 
at  this  table." 

"  You  need  not  give  me  ordinary  details  of  your 
sittings,"  said  the  professor.  "  I  am  familiar 
with  them,  of  course." 

"  Henry  Chichester  — " 

"  You !     You !     Don't  complicate  matters  I  " 

"  I  never  was  entranced;  but  presently  I  felt 
myself  changing  subtly." 

"  People  very  often  imagine  they  are  developing 
into  something  wonderful  at  seances.  Nothing 
new  in  that." 

"  Please  try  to  realize  the  facts  of  my  case 
without  assuming  that  it  resembles  a  thousand 
others.  I  believe,  I  feel  sure,  that  it  resembles  no 
other  case  that  has  come  under  your  observation. 
To  grasp  it  you  must  grasp  the  characters  of  two 
men,  Marcus  Harding  as  he  was  —  and  myself, 
as  I  was." 

"  Put  them  before  me,  then." 

"  That  Marcus  Harding  you  knew.  He  was 
the  type  of  the  man  who,  sublimely  self-confident, 
imposes  his  view  of  himself  upon  other  men  and 
especially  upon  women.  He  had  strength  — 
strength  of  body  and  strength  of  mind.  And  he 
had  the  strength  which  a  devouring  ambition  sheds 
through  a  man.  A  fine  type  of  the  worldly  clergy- 

220 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD, 

man  he  was,  of  the  ardent  climber  up  the  ladder 
of  preferment.  To  him  the  church  was  a  career, 
and  he  meant  to  succeed  in  it.  If  he  had  to  begin 
as  a  curate  he  meant  to  end  as  a  bishop,  perhaps 
as  an  archbishop.  And  he  had  will  to  help  him, 
and  vitality  to  help  him,  and  the  sort  of  talent 
that  brings  quick  notice  on  a  man.  And  he  had 
also  a  woman  to  help  him,  his  wife,  Lady  Sophia. 
He  chose  well  when  he  chose  her  for  his  helpmate, 
though  he  may  not  think  so  now.  He  should  have 
been  content  with  what  he  had.  But  he  wanted 
more,  and  he  thought  he  might  perhaps  get  what 
he  wanted  through  me.  Marcus  Harding  was  a 
full-blooded  type  of  the  clerical  autocrat.  I  once 
was  an  equally  complete  type  of  the  clerical  slave 
—  slave  to  conscience,  slave  to  humble-mindedness, 
slave  to  my  rector  as  soon  as  I  knew  him. 

"  St.  Francis  of  Assisi  was  the  character  I  wor- 
shiped. I  strove  after  simple  goodness.  I  de- 
sired no  glories  of  this  world,  no  praises  of  men. 
I  did  not  wish  to  be  clever  or  to  shine,  but  only  to 
do  my  duty  to  my  fellow-men,  and  so  toward  God. 
When  I  was  first  to  make  the  acquaintance  of 
Marcus  Harding,  with  a  view  to  becoming  his 
senior  curate  if  he  thought  fit,  I  felt  some  alarm. 
I  had  heard  so  much  of  his  great  energy  and  his 
remarkable  talents.  The  day  came.  I  paid  my 

221 


THE  DWELLER 

visit  to  Onslow  Gardens.  For  the  first  time  I 
saw  — "  Chichester  paused.  His  face  became  dis- 
torted. He  turned  toward  the  window  as  if 
anxious  to  hide  his  face  from  the  professor's  small, 
keen  eyes.  "  I  saw  —  that  man,"  he  continued, 
in  a  withdrawn  and  husky  voice,  and  still  looking 
away. 

Stepton  sat  motionless  and  silent,  sidewise,  with 
his  arms  hanging. 

Chichester,  after  another  long  pause,  again 
faced  him. 

"  My  very  first  impression  was  unfavorable.  I 
attributed  this  to  his  great  size,  which  had  startled 
me.  I  now  know  I  was  wrong  in  thinking  I  took 
that  impression  from  the  outer  man.  It  was  the 
inner  man  who  in  that  moment  announced  himself 
to  me.  But  almost  instantly  he  had  surely  with- 
drawn himself  very  far  away,  and  I,  then,  had  no 
means  of  following  him.  So  he  escaped  from  me, 
and  I  fell  under  the  influence  that  Marcus  Hard- 
ing was  able  to  exert  at  will. 

"  I  was  dominated.  Buoyancy,  life,  energy, 
self-confidence,  radiated  from  that  man.  He 
steeped  me  in  his  vigor.  He  seemed  kind,  cor- 
dial. He  won  my  heart.  My  intellect,  of  course, 
was  dazzled.  But  —  he  won  my  heart.  And  I 

222 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

felt  not  only,  '  Here  is  a  man  far  greater  than  my- 
self to  whom  I  can  look  up,'  but  also,  '  Here  is 
a  man  to  whom  I  must  look  up,  because  he  is  far 
better  than  myself.'  At  that  interview  it  was  set- 
tled that  I  should  become  senior  curate  at  St. 
Joseph's. 

"  As  you  know,  I  became,  and  still  am,  senior 
curate.  As  I  grew  to  know  Marcus  Harding 
better  I  admired  him  more.  In  fact,  my  feeling 
for  him  was  something  greater  than  admiration. 
I  almost  worshiped  him.  His  will  was  law  to  me 
in  everything.  His  slightest  wish  I  regarded  as 
a  behest.  His  talents  amazed  me.  But  I  thought 
him  not  only  the  cleverest,  but  the  best  of  men. 
It  seemed  to  me  right  that  such  a  man  should  be 
autocratic.  A  beneficent  autocracy  became  my 
ideal  of  government.  That  my  rector's  will 
should  be  law  to  his  wife,  his  servants,  his  curates, 
his  organist,  his  choir,  to  those  attached  to  his 
schools,  to  those  who  benefited  by  the  charities  he 
organized,  seemed  to  me  more  than  right  and 
proper.  I  could  have  wished  to  see  it  law  to  all 
the  world.  If  any  one  ventured  to  question  any 
decision  of  his,  or  to  speak  a  word  against  him, 
I  felt  almost  hot  with  anger.  In  a  word,  I  was 
at  his  feet,  as  the  small  and  humble-minded  man 

223 


THE  DWELLER 

often  is  at  the  feet  of  the  man  who  has  talents 
and  who  is  gifted  with  ambition  and  supreme  self- 
confidence. 

"  For  a  long  time  this  condition  of  things  con- 
tinued, and  I  was  happy  in  it.  Probably  it  might 
have  continued  till  now,  if  —  if  that  accursed  idea 
had  not  come  to  Marcus  Harding." 

Again  Chichester  paused.  In  speaking  he  had 
evidently  become  gradually  less  aware  of  his  com- 
panion's presence  and  personality.  His  subject 
had  gripped  him.  Memory  had  grown  warm 
within  him.  He  lived  in  the  days  that  were  past. 

"  That  accursed  idea,"  he  repeated  slowly,  "  to 
use  me  as  his  tool  in  an  endeavor  to  break  down 
the  barrier  which  divides  men  from  the  other 
world. 

"  As  I  told  you,  we  began  to  sit  secretly. 
Marcus  Harding  wished  me  to  fall  into  the  en- 
tranced condition.  I  did  not  know  this  at  first, 
so  at  first  I  did  not  consciously  resist  his  desire. 
He  had  told  me  a  lie.  He  had  told  me  that  he 
desired  only  one  thing  in  our  sittings,  to  give  to 
me  something  of  the  will  power  that  made  him  a 
force  in  the  world.  He  had  declared  that  this 
was  possible.  I  believed  him  unquestioningly.  I 
thought  he  was  trying  to  send  some  of  his  power 
into  me.  Soon  I  felt  that  he  was  succeeding  in 

224 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

this  supposed  endeavor.  Soon  I  felt  that  a  strange 
new  power  was  filtering  into  me." 

Chichester  fixed  his  eyes  on  Stepton  as  he  said 
the  last  words,  and  seemed  to  emerge  from  his 
former  condition  of  self-absorption. 

"  You  have  sat  often.  Have  you  ever  felt  such 
a  sensation?  It  is  like  growth,"  he  said. 

"  When  one  first  begins  to  sit  at  seances,  one 
is  apt  to  imagine  all  sorts  of  things  in  the  dark- 
ness," returned  Stepton.  "  I  dare  say  I  did,  like 
other  folk." 

"  I  understand,"  said  Chichester,  with  a  sort 
of  strange  condescension.  "  You  think  I  was 
merely  the  victim  of  absurdity.  The  sense  of  this 
coming  of  power  grew  slowly,  but  steadily,  within 
me.  And  presently  it  was  complicated  by  another 
development,  which  involved  —  or  began  to  in- 
volve, let  me  say  at  this  point  —  my  companion, 
Marcus  Harding.  I  think  I  ought  to  tell  you  that 
in  beginning  the  sittings  I  had  had  certain  doubts, 
which  were  swept  away  by  my  admiration  of,  and 
faith  in,  my  rector.  Hitherto  I  had  always 
thought  that  our  human  knowledge  was  deliber- 
ately limited  by  God,  and  that  it  was  very  wrong 
to  strive  to  know  too  much.  The  man  of  science 
no  doubt  believes  that  it  is  impossible  to  know 
too  much;  but  I  have  thought  that  many  great 
15  225 


THE  DWELLER 

truths  are  kept  from  us  because  we  are  not  yet  in 
a  condition  properly  to  understand  them.  I  had, 
therefore,  begun  these,  practices  with  a  certain 
tremor,  and  possibly  a  certain  feeling  of  resistance, 
in  the  depths  of  my  soul.  As  I  felt  the  power 
coming  to  me  I  had  put  away  my  fears.  They 
did  not  return.  Yet  surely  the  new  development 
within  me,  of  which  I  now  became  aware,  was 
connected  with  those  fears,  however  subtly.  It 
was  a  sensation  almost  of  hostility  directed  against 
Marcus  Harding." 

"Ah,  now!  "  ejaculated  the  professor,  as  if  in 
despite  of  himself.  "  And  where  's  the  connection 
you  speak  of  ?  " 

"  Marcus  Harding  had  constrained  me  to  do 
a  thing  that  in  my  soul  I  had  believed  to  be  wrong 
and  that  had  roused  my  fear.  As  power  dawned 
in  me,  directing  itself  upon  everything  about  me, 
it  was  instinctively  hostile  to  him  who  had  domi- 
nated me  before  I  had  any  power,  and  who,  by 
dominating  me,  had  for  a  moment  made  me 
afraid." 

"Retrospective  enmity!  Very  well!"  mut- 
tered the  professor.  "  I  understand  you.  Keep 
on!" 

"  This  hostility  —  if  I  may  call  a  feeling  at 
first  not  very  definite  by  so  definite  a  name  —  in- 

226 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

duced  in  me  a  critical  attitude  of  mind.  I  found 
myself,  to  my  surprise,  secretly  criticizing  the  man 
whom  till  now  I  had  regarded  as  altogether  be- 
yond the  reach  of  criticism.  I  felt  that  Marcus 
Harding  was  giving  me  power.  I  was  grateful 
to  him  for  doing  so;  yet  I  began  to  see  him  in  a 
new,  and  at  moments  an  unpleasant  light.  Pres- 
ently, after  trying  in  vain  to  combat  this  novel 
sensation,  which  seemed  to  me  almost  treacherous, 
almost  disloyal,  I  sought  about  for  a  reason,  to 
give  myself  at  least  some  justification  for  it.  I 
sought,  and  one  night  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  found. 
"  On  that  night  I  was  more  than  ever  aware 
that  strength  of  some  kind  was  pouring  into  me. 
I  had  an  almost  heady  sensation,  such  as  one  who 
drinks  a  generous  wine  may  experience.  When 
we  rose  from  the  table  I  told  my  rector  so.  He 
stared  at  me  very  strangely.  Then  he  said: 
'  Good !  Good !  Did  n't  I  tell  you  I  would  give 
you  some  of  my  power?  '  He  paused.  Then  he 
added :  '  It  will  come !  It  must  come ! '  As  he 
spoke  the  last  words  he  frowned,  and  all  his  face 
seemed  to  harden,  as  if  he  were  making  a  violent 
mental  effort  to  which  the  body  was  obliged  to 
respond.  And  at  that  instant  I  was  aware  that 
the  reason  Marcus  Harding  had  given  to  me  to 
persuade  me  to  these  sittings  was  not  the  true  one, 

227 


THE  DWELLER 

that  his  purpose  was  quite  other  than  that  which 
I  had  hitherto  supposed  it  to  be.  I  was  suddenly 
aware  of  this,  and  I  thought :  '  I  must  already 
have  been  aware  of  it  subconsciously,  and  that  ac- 
counts for  my  sensation  of  hostility  toward  the 
rector.'  A  lie  had  been  told  to  me.  My  new 
self-confidence  resented  this;  and  I  said  to  myself, 
'  If  Marcus  Harding  can  tell  a  lie  to  me,  who 
almost  worshiped  him,  he  must  be  an  arrant  hypo- 
crite.' 

"  We  sat  again,  and  again  I  knew  that  there 
was  something  in  the  mind  of  my  companion  which 
he  concealed  from  me,  something  to  which  I 
should  strongly  object  if  I  knew  what  it  was, 
something  which  troubled  the  atmosphere,  the 
mental  atmosphere,  of  the  sitting.  Instead  of  be- 
ing in  accord,  we  were  engaged  in  a  silent,  but 
violent,  struggle.  I  was  determined  not  to  be 
overcome.  A  sort  of  fierce  desire  for  tyranny 
sprang  up  in  me.  I  longed  to  see  Marcus  Hard- 
ing at  my  feet. 

"  Again  and  again  we  sat.  My  hostile  feeling 
grew.  My  critical  feeling  grew.  My  longing  to 
tyrannize  increased,  till  I  was  almost  afraid  of  it, 
so  cruel  did  I  feel  it  to  be.  '  Down !  Down  un- 
der my  feet!  '  That  was  what  my  soul  was 
secretly  saying  now  to  the  man  whose  will  had 

228 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

been  as  law  to  me.  And  one  night,  as  if  he  heard 
that  ugly  voice  of  my  soul,  he  abruptly  got  up 
from  the  table  and  said:  'It  seems  to  me  that 
you  and  I  are  not  en  rapport.  It  seems  to  me 
that  no  more  good  can  come  of  these  sittings.  We 
had  better  not  sit  again." 

"  We  must  sit  again,"  I  replied. 

"  Marcus  Harding  turned  scarlet  with  anger. 
He  looked  at  me.  He  opened  his  lips  to  speak. 
I  let  him  speak.  I  even  argued  the  question  with 
him.  I  pointed  out  to  him  that  his  only  design  — 
the  only  design  acknowledged  by  him,  at  any  rate, 
in  beginning  these  practices  —  had  been  to  give 
me  strength  such  as,  he  had  declared  to  me,  he 
himself  had  drawn  while  at  Oxford  from  a  Hindu 
comrade.  In  carrying  out  this  design,  I  now  told 
him,  he  was  being  successful.  I  felt  that  I  was 
growing  in  power  of  will,  in  self-confidence. 
How,  then,  could  he  refuse  to  continue  when  suc- 
cess was  already  in  sight?  '  Unless,'  I  concluded, 
'  you  had  some  other  design  in  persuading  me  to 
sit, "which  I  did  in  the  first  instance  against  my 
secret  desire,  and  you  feel  that  there  is  now  no 
probability  of  carrying  that  design  into  effect.' 

"  He  gave  in.  I  had  him  beaten.  Hastily  he 
muttered  a  good-night  and  left  me.  I  let  him  out 
into  the  night.  As  soon  as  the  street  door  had 

229 


THE  DWELLER 

shut  on  him  I  ran  upstairs.  I  went  to  that  win- 
dow,— "  Chichester  flung  out  his  hand — •"  pushed 
it  up,  leaned  out,  and  watched  him  down  the  street. 
I  saw  him  pass  under  a  gas-lamp  and  I  said  to 
myself:  '  You  have  submitted  to  my  will,  and  you 
shall  submit  again.  I  am  the  master  now.' 

"  In  that  moment  all  the  domination  which  I 
had  so  joyously  endured,  which  I  had  even  surely 
reveled  in, —  for  there  are  those  who  can  revel  in 
their  slavery, —  abruptly  became  in  my  mind  a 
reason  for  revenge.  Marcus  Harding  disap- 
peared in  the  night;  but  still  I  leaned  out,  staring 
down  the  way  he  had  gone,  and  thinking,  '  You 
shall  pay  me  back  for  it.  You  shall  pay  me 
back.' 

"  From  that  night  I  made  no  effort  to  check  the 
critical  faculty,  the  exercise  of  which  at  first  had 
seemed  to  me  a  sort  of  treachery.  And  as  I  let 
myself  criticize,  I  saw  more  clearly.  The  scales 
fell  from  my  eyes.  I  realized  that  I  had  been 
nothing  less  than  blind  in  regard  to  Marcus  Hard- 
ing. I  saw  him  now  as  he  was,  a  victim  of  ego- 
mania, a  worldling,  tyrannical,  falsely  sentimental, 
and  unfaithful  steward,  a  liar  —  perhaps  even  an 
unbeliever.  His  whole  desire  —  I  knew  it  now  — 
was  not  to  be  good,  but  to  be  successful.  His 
charity,  his  pity  for  the  poor,  his  generosity,  his 

230 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

care  for  his  church,  for  his  schools  —  all  was  pre- 
tence. I  saw  Marcus  Harding  as  he  was.  And 
what  followed?  " 

Chichester  leaned  forward  to  the  professor. 

"  Fear  followed,"  he  said  in  a  withdrawn  voice. 

"  Fear!  "  said  Stepton,  clearing  his  throat  with 
a  loud,  rasping  noise. 

;'  Whenever  I  was  with  Marcus  Harding  in  any 
public  place  I  was  now  companioned  by  fear.  I 
dreaded  unspeakably  lest  others  should  begin  to 
see  what  I  saw.  When  he  preached,  I  could 
hardly  sit  to  listen :  I  felt  as  if  any  shame  falling 
upon  him  would  overwhelm  me  also.  I  strove  in 
vain  to  combat  this  strange,  this,  then,  inexplicable 
sensation.  With  every  sitting  this  terror  grew 
upon  me.  It  tortured  me.  It  obsessed  me.  It 
drove  me  into  action.  When  I  was  with  my  rec- 
tor, I  tried  perpetually  to  prevent  him  from  ex- 
posing his  true  self  to  the  world,  by  changing  the 
conversation,  by  attenuating  his  remarks,  by  cover- 
ing up  his  actions  with  my  own,  sometimes  even 
by  a  brusque  interruption.  But  in  the  pulpit  he 
escaped  from  me.  I  was  forced  to  sit  silent  and 
to  listen  while  he  preached  doctrine  in  which  he 
had  no  belief,  and  put  forward  theories  of  salva- 
tion, redemption  by  faith,  and  the  like,  which 
meant  less  than  nothing  to  him.  Finding  this 

231 


THE  DWELLER 

presently  unendurable  by  me,  I  strove  to  govern 
him  mentally  when  he  was  in  the  pulpit,  to  track 
him,  as  it  were,  with  my  mind,  to  head  him  off 
with  my  mind  when  he  was  beginning  to  take  the 
wrong  path." 

"Did  you  succeed  in  that  effort?"  interrupted 
the  professor. 

"  I  made  an  impression,  a  terrible  impression, 
upon  him.  I  almost  broke  him  down.  I  sapped 
his  self-confidence.  His  power  as  a  preacher  de- 
serted him,  as  his  power  outside  the  pulpit  deserted 
him.  With  every  day  I  felt  that  I  saw  more 
clearly  into  every  recess,  every  cranny,  of  his  mind 
and  nature.  Just  at  first  this  frightfully  clear 
sight  was  mine  only  when  we  were  sitting;  but 
presently  it  was  mine  whenever  I  was  with  him. 
And  he  knew  it,  and  went  in  fear  of  me.  Gradu- 
ally, very  gradually,  it  came  about  that  our  former 
positions  were  reversed;  for  as  he  sank  down  in 
the  human  scale,  I  mounted.  As  he  lost  in  power, 
I  gained.  And  especially  in  the  pulpit  I  felt  that 
now  I  had  force,  that  I  could  grip  my  hearers, 
could  make  a  mighty  impression  upon  those  with 
whom  I  was  brought  into  contact. 

"  But  I  must  tell  you  that  now  I  gained  no  satis- 
faction from  my  own  improvement,  if  so  it  may  be 
called.  My  whole  life  was  vitiated  by  my  secret 

232 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

terror  lest  Marcus  Harding  should  be  found  out, 
should  ever  be  known  for  what  he  was.  His  ac- 
tions, and  even  his  thoughts,  affected  me  with  an 
intimacy  that  was  inexplicable." 

'  You  were  in  telepathic  communication  with 
him!  "  interjected  Stepton. 

"  Call  it  so  if  you  like.  Often  I  felt  what  he 
was  thinking,  almost  as  if  each  thought  of  his 
were  a  hand  laid  upon  me  • —  a  hand  from  which 
I  shrank  with  an  almost  trembling  repugnance. 
Sometimes  when  he  thought  something  contempti- 
ble or  evil,  I  shrank  as  if  from  a  blow. 

'  There  was  a  link  between  us.  Presently, 
soon,  I  knew  it.  We  seemed  in  some  dreadful 
way  to  belong  to  each  other,  so  that  whatever  was 
thought,  said,  done  by  him,  whatever  happened  to 
him,  reacted  upon  me. 

"  At  this  time  Lady  Sophia  Harding  hated  me 
with  a  deadly  hatred.  Formerly  she  had  been  in- 
different to  me.  Concentrated  upon  her  husband, 
adoring  him,  vain  of  him,  greedily  ambitious  for 
his  advancement,  she  had  had  no  time  to  bestow 
on  a  clerical  nonentity.  But  as  I  grew  to  under- 
stand what  her  husband  really  was  she  grew  to 
hate  me.  She  was  almost  rude  to  me.  She  spoke 
ill  of  me  behind  my  back.  She  even  tried  to  oust 
me  from  my  position  as  senior  curate  of  St.  Jo- 

233 


THE  DWELLER 

seph's.  Why  did  not  she  succeed?  Are  you 
thinking  that?  " 

"  Well,  what  if  I  was?  "  snapped  the  professor, 
moving  in  his  chair. 

"  Marcus  Harding  could  not  make  a  move  to 
get  rid  of  me.  There  was  a  link  between  us  which 
he  could  not  even  try  to  break. 

"  One  night  —  one  night  —  I  discovered  what 
that  link  was." 

It  was  growing  dark  in  the  room.  The  Ros- 
setti  Madonna,  thin,  anemic,  with  hanging  hair, 
seemed  fading  away  on  the  somber,  green  wall. 
The  window-panes  looked  spectral  and  white. 
The  faint  murmur  of  the  city  sounded  a  little 
deeper  and  much  sadder  than  in  the  light  of  day. 
Stepton  was  aware  of  a  furtive  but  strong  desire 
for  artificial  light  in  the  room,  but  he  did  not 
choose  to  mention  it.  And  Chichester,  whose 
voice  —  so  it  seemed  to  his  hearer  —  began  to 
have  that  peculiar  almost  alarming  timbre  which 
belongs  to  a  voice  speaking  not  for  the  ears  of 
another,  but  for  the  satisfaction  only  of  the  soul 
which  it  expresses,  continued  his  narrative,  or  con- 
fession, as  if  unaware  of  the  dying  of  day. 

"  During  the  day  which  preceded  it  I  had  been 
haunted  by  the  thought  of  myself  doing  what 
Marcus  Harding  could  not  do.  Why  should  not 

234 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

I  of  my  own  will  leave  St.  Joseph's,  get  away 
from  this  dreadful  contemplation  which  obsessed 
me,  from  this  continual  anxiety  —  almost  amount- 
ing to  terror  at  moments  —  which  gnawed  me  ? 
Why  should  not  I  break  this  mysterious  link,  im- 
palpable yet  strong?  If  I  did,  should  I  not  again 
find  peace?  But  my  sittings  with  Marcus  Hard- 
ing would  be  at  an  end.  Could  I  give  them  up? 
I  asked  myself  that,  and  I  felt  as  if  I  could  not. 
Through  them,  by  means  of  them,  I  felt  as  if  I 
might  attain  to  something  wonderful  —  terrible 
perhaps,  but  wonderful.  I  felt  as  if  I  were  ap- 
proaching the  threshold  of  absolute  truth.  A 
voice  within  me  whispered,  '  Go  no  further.' 
Was  it  the  voice  of  conscience?  I  did  not  heed  it. 
Something  irresistible  urged  me  forward.  I 
thrust  away  from  me  with  a  sort  of  crude  mental 
violence  the  haunting  thought.  And  when  the 
darkness  came  I  greeted  it. 

"  For  he  came  with  the  darkness." 

On  the  wall  opposite  to  the  professor  the  thin 
Madonna  faded  away. 

"  As  I  heard  his  heavy  step  on  the  stairs  that 
night  I  said  to  myself,  *  At  all  hazards  I  will  see, 
I  will  know,  more.  I  will  see,  I  will  know  —  all.' 
When  he  entered  at  that  door  " —  a  thin  darkness 
moved  in  the  darkness  as  Chichester  pointed  — "  he 

235 


THE  DWELLER 

was  dreadfully  white  and  looked  sad,  almost  terri- 
fied. He  suggested  that  we  should  break  through 
our  plan  and  not  sit.  I  refused.  He  then  said 
he  wished  to  sit  in  light.  I  refused.  He  was  be- 
come my  creature.  He  dared  not  disobey  my 
desires.  We  placed  our  hands  on  this  table,  not 
touching.  I  could  no  longer  endure  the  touch  of 
his  hand.  We  remained  motionless.  A  long  time 
passed.  There  were  no  rappings.  A  strange 
deadness  seemed  to  prevail  in  the  room.  Presently 
it  faded  away,  and  I  had  the  sensation  that  I  was 
sitting  quite  alone. 

"  At  first  it  seemed  to  me  that  my  companion 
must  have  crept  out  of  the  room  silently,  leaving 
me  by  myself  in  the  darkness.  I  shuddered  at  the 
thought  that  I  was  alone.  But  then  I  said  to  my- 
self that  Marcus  Harding  must  be  there  in  the 
blackness  opposite  to  me,  and  I  moved  my  hands 
furtively  on  the  table,  thinking  to  prove  his  pres- 
ence to  myself  by  touch.  I  did  not  prove  it. 
Suddenly  I  had  no  need  to  touch  him  in  order  to 
know  that  he  was  there." 

"Why  not?"  said  the  professor,  and  started 
at  the  sound  of  his  own  voice  in  the  little  room. 

"  Something  made  me  realize  that  he  was  still 
within  the  room.  Nevertheless,  I  felt  that  I  was 
alone.  How  could  that  be?  I  asked  myself  that 

236 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

question.  This  answer  came  as  it  were  sluggishly 
into  my  mind,  '  You  are  alone  not  because  Marcus 
Harding  is  away,  but  because  Henry  Chichester  is 
away.'  For  a  long  while  I  sat  there  stagnantly 
dwelling  on  this  knowledge  which  had  come  to  me 
in  the  blackness.  It  was  as  if  I  knew  without 
understanding,  as  a  man  may  know  he  is  involved 
in  a  catastrophe  without  realizing  how  it  has  af- 
fected his  own  fate.  And  then  slowly  there  came 
to  me,  or  grew  in  me,  an  understanding  of  how  I 
was  alone.  I  was  alone  with  Marcus  Harding  at 
that  moment  because  I  was  Marcus  Harding.  A 
shutter  seemed  to  slide  back  softly,  and  for  the 
first  time  I,  Marcus  Harding,  stared  upon  myself 
out  of  the  body  of  another  man,  of  Henry  Chi- 
chester. I  was  alone  with  my  soul  double.  Mo- 
tionless, silent,  I  gazed  upon  it.  Now  I  under- 
stood why  I  had  been  tortured  with  anxiety  lest 
the  world  should  learn  to  comprehend  Marcus 
Harding  as  I  comprehended  him.  Now  I  under- 
stood why  neither  he  nor  I  had  been  able  to  break 
that  mysterious  link  which  our  sittings  had  forged 
between  us.  I  had  been  trying  ignorantly  to  pro- 
tect myself,  to  conceal  my  own  shortcomings,  to 
cover  my  own  nakedness.  I  had  sweated  with 
fear  lest  my  own  truth  should  be  discovered  by 
all  those  to  whom  for  so  many  years  I  had  been 

237 


THE  DWELLER 

presenting  a  lie.  Yes,  I  had  sweated  with  fear; 
but  even  then  how  little  I  had  known!  A  voice 
cried  out  suddenly,  '  Turn  on  the  light !  '  It  was 
the  voice  of  my  double.  It  seemed  to  awake,  or 
to  recall  perhaps, —  how  can  I  say  ?  —  Henry  Chi- 
chester.  I  was  aware  of  a  shock;  it  seemed 
strongly  physical.  I  got  up  at  once  and  turned  the 
light  on.  Marcus  Harding  was  before  me,  trem- 
bling, ashen.  'What  is  it?  What  has  hap- 
pened?' he  said  in  a  broken  voice.  I  made  no 
reply.  He  left  me.  I  heard  his  step  in  the  street 
—  out  there !  " 

Chichester  was  silent.  The  professor  said  noth- 
ing for  a  moment,  but  passed  his  tongue  twice  over 
his  lips  and  swallowed,  sighing  immediately  after- 
ward. 

"  Transferred  personality  I  "  he  muttered  — 
"  transferred  personality.  Is  that  what  you  'd 
have  me  believe?  " 

"  I  '11  tell  you  the  rest.  When  Marcus  Hard- 
ing's  steps  died  away  down  the  street  I  remained 
here.  Since  that  shock  I  have  spoken  of,  I  felt 
that  I  was  again  Henry  Chichester,  changed,  as  I 
had  long  been  changed  —  charged  with  new  force, 
new  knowledge,  new  discrimination,  new  power 
over  others,  gifted  with  a  penetrating  vision  into 
the  very  soul  of  the  man  I  had  worshiped,  yet 

238 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

Henry  Chichester.  And  as  Henry  Chichester  I 
suffered;  I  condemned  myself.  This  I  said  to 
myself  that  night,  '  I  was  determined  to  see.  I 
disregarded  the  voice  within  me  which  warned  me 
that  I  was  treading  a  forbidden  path.  God  has 
punished  me.  He  has  allowed  me  to  see.  But 
this  shall  be  the  end.  I  will  never  sit  again.  I 
will  give  up  my  curacy.  I  will  leave  St.  Joseph's 
at  once.  Never  more  will  I  set  eyes  on  Marcus 
Harding.'  I  was  in  a  condition  of  fierce  excite- 
ment— " 

"  Ah,  exactly,"  muttered  the  professor,  almost 
as  if  consoled — "  fierce  excitement!  " 

"  I  could  not  think  of  sleep.  For  a  long  time 
I  remained  in  here,  sitting,  standing,  pacing,  open- 
ing books;  I  scarcely  know  what  I  did  or  did  not 
do.  At  last  a  sensation  of  terrible  exhaustion 
crept  over  me.  I  undressed.  I  threw  myself  on 
*my  bed.  I  tried  to  sleep.  I  turned,  shifted,  got 
up,  let  in  more  air,  again  lay  down,  lay  resolutely 
still  in  the  dark,  tried  not  to  think.  But  always 
my  mind  dwelt  on  that  matter.  In  those  few 
frightful  moments  what  had  become  of  myself,  of 
Henry  Chichester?  Had  the  powerful  personal- 
ity of  that  man  whom  once  I  had  almost  worshiped 
thrust  him  away,  submerged  him,  stricken  him 
down  in  a  sort  of  deathlike  trance?  What  I  had 

239 


THE  DWELLER 

seen  I  remembered  now  as  Henry  Chichester. 
What  I  had  known  in  those  moments  I  still  knew 
now  as  Henry  Chichester.  In  vain  I  revolved  this 
matter  in  my  feverish  mind.  It  was  too  much  for 
me.  I  was  in  deep  waters. 

"  I  closed  my  eyes.  The  fatigue  wrapped  me 
more  closely.  Sleep  at  last  was  surely  drawing 
near.  But  suddenly  I  knew  —  how  I  cannot  ex- 
actly say  —  that  once  more  the  shutter  was  to  be 
drawn  back  for  me.  This  knowledge  resembled 
a  horrible  physical  sensation.  The  entry  of  it 
into  my  mind,  or  indeed  into  my  very  soul,  was  as 
the  dawning  of  a  dreadful  and  unnatural  pain  in 
the  body.  This  pain  increased  till  it  became 
agony.  Although  I  still  lay  motionless,  I  felt  like 
one  involved  in  a  furious  struggle  in  which  the 
whole  sum  of  me  took  violent  part.  And  there 
came  to  me  the  simile  of  a  man  seized  by  tre- 
mendous hands,  and  held  before  a  window  opening 
into  a  room  in  which  something  frightful  was 
about  to  take  place.  And  the  shutter  slipped  back 
from  the  window. 

"  Again  I  looked  upon  myself.  That  was  my 
exact  sensation.  The  shutter  drawn  back,  I  as- 
sisted at  the  spectacle  of  Marcus  Harding's  life. 
And  it  was  my  life.  I  knew  with  such  frightful 
intimacy  that  my  knowledge  was  as  vision. 

240 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

Therefore,    I   say,   I   saw.'    Not   only   my  spirit 
seemed  to  be  gazing,  but  also  my  bodily  eyes. 

"  I  saw  myself  in  the  night  slowly  approaching 
my  house  in  Onslow  Gardens,  ashen  pale,  shaken, 
terrified.  At  a  corner  I  passed  a  policeman.  He 
knew  me  and  saluted  me  with  respect.  I  made 
no  gesture  in  response.  He  stared  at  me  in  sur- 
prise. Then  a  smile  came  into  his  face  —  the 
smile  of  a  man  who  is  suddenly  able  to  think  much 
less  of  another  than  he  thought  before.  I  left 
him  smiling  thus,  reached  my  house,  and  stood  be- 
fore it. 

"  Now  I  must  tell  you,  and  I  rely  absolutely 
on  your  regarding  this  as  said  in  the  strictest,  most 
inviolable  confidence  — " 

"  Certainly.  Word  of  honor,  and  so  forth !  " 
said  the  professor,  quickly  and  sharply. 

"  I  must  tell  you  that  Marcus  Harding  is  a  sin- 
ner, and  not  merely  in  the  sense  in  which  all  men 
are  sinners.  There  have  been  recurring  moments 
in  his  life  when  he  has  committed  actions  which,  if 
publicly  known,  would  ruin  him  in  the  eyes  of  the 
world  and  put  an  end  to  his  career.  As  I  looked 
at  myself  standing  before  my  house,  I  saw  that  I 
was  hesitating  whether  to  go  in  with  my  misery, 
or  whether  to  seek  for  it  the  hideous  alleviation 
of  my  beloved  sin. 

16  241 


THE  DWELLER 

"  Professor," —  it  seemed  to  Stepton  at  this  mo- 
ment as  if  Chichester's  voice  loomed  upon  him  out 
of  the  darkness  by  which  they  were  now  en- 
shrouded,— "  it  has  been  said  that  nothing  shocks 
a  man  so  terribly  as  the  sight  of  his  body-double  t- 
that  to  see  what  appears  to  be  himself,  even  if  only 
standing  at  a  window  or  sitting  before  a  fire,  causes 
in  a  man  a  physical  horror  which  seems  to  strike 
to  the  very  roots  of  his  physical  being.  I  looked 
now  upon  my  soul-double,  piercing  the  fleshly  en« 
velop,  and  it  was  my  very  soul  that  sweated  and 
turned  cold.  For  I  perceived  the  dreadful  action 
which,  if  known,  would  certainly  ruin  me,  being 
committed  by  the  spirit.  The  slavish  body  had 
not  yet  bowed  down  and  done  its  part;  but  it  was 
about  to  obey  the  impulse  of  the  spirit.  Slowly 
the  body  turned  away  from  its  home.  The  spirit 
was  driving  it.  The  demon  with  the  whip  was  at 
work  in  the  night.  I  looked  till  the  dawn  came. 
And  only  when  at  last  my  double  crept,  like  a  thief, 
into  its  house,  did  sleep  take  me  for  a  little  while 
—  sleep  that  was  alive  with  nightmare." 

Chichester  was  silent.  The  professor  heard 
him  breathing  quickly,  saw  him,  almost  as  a 
shadow  just  shown  by  the  faint  light  that  entered 
from  the  street  through  the  two  small  windows, 
clasp  and  unclasp  his  hands,  touch  his  forehead, 

242 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

his  eyelids,   move  in  his  chair,   like  a  man  pro- 
foundly stirred  and  unable  to  be  at  ease. 

"  When  I  woke,"  he  continued,  after  a  long 
pause,  which  the  professor  did  not  break  by  a  word 
or  a  movement,  "  I  woke  to  combat.  As  I  told 
you,  I  had  resolved  at  once  to  resign  my  curacy, 
and  never  to  see  that  man  again.  In  the  light  of 
the  morning  I  sat  down  to  write  my  letter  of  resig- 
nation; but  I  could  not  do  it.  A  fearful  compul- 
sion to  remain  was  upon  me.  I  wrote  a  few  words. 
I  stopped,  tore  the  note  up,  began  again.  But 
writing  was  impossible.  Then  I  resolved  to  visit 
Marcus  Harding  and  to  tell  him  that  I  must  go. 
I  went  to  his  house.  He  was  at  home.  When  I 
saw  him  I  told  him  that  I  wished  him  to  sit  again 
that  night.  He  strove  to  refuse.  He  did  not 
understand  the  truth,  but  he  was  terrified.  I 
ordered  him  to  come  to  my  rooms  that  night,  and 
left  him.  As  I  was  going  away  I  met  Lady 
Sophia.  To  my  amazement,  she  stopped  me, 
spoke  to  me  kindly,  even  more  than  kindly,  looked 
at  me  with  an  expression  in  her  eyes  that  almost 
frightened  me.  I  said  to  myself,  '  But  those  are 
a  slave's  eyes !  '  as  I  left  her.  Never  before  had 
any  woman  looked  at  me  like  that.  In  that  mo- 
ment, I  think,  she  began  to  turn  from  him  toward 
me,  to  forsake  weakness  for  strength.  Yes,  I  say 

243 


THE  DWELLER 

strength.  I  was  rent  by  the  tumult  within  me, 
but  I  had  strength.  I  have  it  now.  For,  despite 
his  hypocrisy,  his  unbelief,  his  active  sinning, 
Marcus  Harding  had  been  a  strong  man.  And 
even  Henry  Chichester,  with  all  his  humbleness, 
his  readiness  to  yield  to  others,  to  think  nothing 
of  himself,  had  had  the  strength  that  belongs  to 
purity  of  soul.  And  then  there  is  the  strength 
the  soul  draws  from  looking  upon  truth.  There 
was  strength,  there  is  now,  for  the  woman  to  fol- 
low. And  instinct  has  surely  guided  her.  She 
does  not,  she  cannot  know.  And  yet  instinct  sends 
her  in  search  of  the  strength." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that?  What  do  you 
claim?" 

"  You  read  that  sermon?  " 

"  I  did." 

"  Don't  you  understand?  I  am  that  man  at 
the  window.  He  did  not  flee  away.  He  could 
not.  He  was,  he  is,  compelled  to  remain.  He 
watches  that  dreadful  life.  And  the  other  within 
the  room  is  fading.  The  strength,  the  authority, 
the  power,  are  coming  to  me.  Every  sitting 
broadens  that  bridge  across  which  the  deserters 
are  passing.  When  I  preached  that  sermon  my 
congregation  sat  as  if  numbed  by  terror.  And  he 
in  the  choir  listened,  never  moving.  I  saw  his 

244 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

spirit,  dazed,  stretching  out  to  grasp  the  truth, 
slipping  back  powerless  to  do  it.  It  was  like  a 
thing  moving  through  the  gloom  of  deep  waters  — 
of  deep,  deep  waters." 

Again  Chichester's  voice  died  away.  In  the 
silence  that  followed  the  professor  heard  the  faint 
ticking  of  a  clock.  He  had  not  noticed  it  before. 
He  could  not  tell  now  whether  it  came  from  within 
the  room  or  from  the  room  behind  the  folding- 
doors.  It  seemed  to  him  as  if  this  ticking  de- 
stroyed his  power  to  think  clearly,  as  if  it  threw 
his  brain  into  an  unwonted  confusion  which  made 
him  feel  strangely  powerless.  He  was  aware  of  a 
great  uneasiness  approaching,  if  not  actually 
amounting  to  fear.  This  uneasiness  made  him 
long  for  light.  Yet  he  knew  that  he  dreaded 
light;  for  he  was  aware  of  an  almost  unconquer- 
able reluctance  to  look  upon  the  face  of  his  com- 
panion. Beset  by  conflicting  desires,  therefore, 
and  the  prey  of  unwonted  emotion,  he  sat  like  one 
paralyzed,  listening  always  to  the  faint  ticking  of 
the  clock,  and  striving  to  reduce  what  was  almost 
like  chaos  to  order  in  his  brain. 

"  Why  have  you  selected  me  to  be  the  hearer 
of  this  —  this  very  extraordinary  statement?"  he 
forced  himself  at  length  to  say  prosaically.  The 
sound  of  his  own  dry  voice  somewhat  reassured 

245 


THE  DWELLER 

him,  and  he  added:  "Though  there  is  nothing 
very  extraordinary  in  the  facts  you  have  related. 
Telepathic  communication  between  one  mind  and 
another  is  a  commonplace  of  to-day,  an  old  story. 
Every  one  of  course  accepts  it  as  possible.  What 
novelty  do  you  claim  to  present  to  startle  science?  " 

"  I  say  that  telepathy  does  not  explain  the  link 
between  Marcus  Harding  and  myself." 

The  professor  struck  his  hand  on  the  table.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  if  only  he  could  get  into  an 
argument  this  strange  confusion  and  fear  might 
leave  him.  He  would  be  on  familiar  ground. 

"  What  you  call  vision  might  be  merely  mind- 
reading,  what  you  call  perceiving  the  action  'of  the 
spirit,  mind-reading.  Your  terror  lest  others 
should  find  out  bad  truths  about  Marcus  Harding 
would  spring  naturally  enough  from  your  linger- 
ing regard  for  him.  Your  acute  anxiety  when  he 
is  preaching  arises  of  course  from  the  fact  that, 
owing  to  bodily  causes,  no  doubt,  his  mental  pow- 
ers are  failing  him,  and  he  is  no  longer  able  to 
do  himself  justice." 

"  You  don't  understand.  What  I  desired  in 
our  sittings  was  to  draw  into  myself  strength, 
power,  will  from  —  him.  What  have  I  done?  I 
have  drawn  into  myself  the  very  man.  That  night 
when  the  shutter  slipped  back  he  looked  out  from 

246 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

the  body  of  Henry  Chichester.  His  mind  worked, 
his  soul  was  alive,  within  the  cage  of  another  man. 
And  meanwhile  Henry  Chichester  lay  as  if  sub- 
merged, but  presently  stirred,  and,  however  feebly, 
lived  again.  He  lives  now.  But  not  from  him 
comes  my  frightful  comprehension  of  Marcus 
Harding.  Not  him  does  Marcus  Harding  fear. 
Not  to  him  does  she,  the  woman,  look  with  the 
eyes  of  a  slave.  It  is  not  he  who  dominates  the 
crowds  in  St.  Joseph's.  It  is  not  he  who  conceived 
that  sermon  of  the  man  and  his  double.  It  is  not 
he  who  has  sometimes  been  terribly  afraid." 

"Afraid!     Afraid!" 

"  There  have  been  moments  when  I  have  been 
moved  to  snatch  my  double  out  of  the  sight  of 
men.  That  day  when  we  met  Evelyn  Mailing  I 
feared  as  I  left  them  alone  together;  and  when  I 
found  Mailing  intimately  there  in  that  house,  I 
felt  like  one  coming  upon  an  ambush  which  might 
be  destructive  of  his  safety.  My  instinct  was  to 
detach  Mailing  from  my  double,  to  attach  him  to 
myself.  My  conduct  startled  him.  I  saw  that 
plainly.  Yet  I  tried  to  win  him  over,  as  it  were, 
to  my  side.  He  came  to  me.  I  strove  to  tell 
him,  but  something  secret  prevented  me.  And 
how  could  he  assist  me?  " 

Chichester  got  up  from  the  table.  The  pro- 
247 


THE  DWELLER 

fessor  saw  a  darkness  moving  as  he  went  to  stand 
by  the  empty  fireplace. 

"  I  must  look  on  truth,"  he  continued;  "  I  have 
to.  The  fascination  of  staring  upon  the  truth  of 
oneself  is  deadly,  but  it  surpasses  all  other  fascina- 
tion. He  sins  more  often  now.  I  watch  him  sin. 
Sometimes  under  my  contemplation  I  see  him 
writhing  like  a  thing  in  a  trap  —  the  semblance  of 
myself.  How  the  woman  despises  him  now! 
Sometimes  I  feel  deeply  sad  at  my  own  ruthless- 
ness.  It  is  frightful  to  contemplate  the  physical 
wreck  of  a  being  whom,  in  some  strange  and  hide- 
ous way,  one  always  feels  to  be  oneself.  When 
I  look  at  him  it  is  as  if  his  fallen  face,  his  hang- 
ing nerveless  hands,  his  down-drooping  figure  and 
eyes  lit  with  despair  were  mine.  His  poses,  his 
gestures,  his  physical  tricks,  they  are  all  mine.  I 
watch  them  with  a  cold,  enveloping  disgust,  frozen 
in  criticism  of  everything  he  does,  anticipating 
every  movement,  every  look,  hating  it  when  it 
comes,  because  it  is  bred  out  of  the  remnant  of  a 
spirit  I  despise  as  no  man  surely  has  ever  despised 
before.  Henry  Chichester  would  pity,  but  he  is 
overborne.  He  is  in  me  as  a  drop  may  be  in  the 
ocean.  I  am  most  aware  of  him  when  my  double 
sins.  Only  last  night  we  sat  " —  Chichester  came 
back  to  the  table,  and  stood  there,  very  faintly 

248 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

relieved  against  the  darkness  by  the  dim  light  which 
penetrated  through  the  windows  — "  we  sat  in  the 
darkness,  and  more  deeply  than  ever  before  I  went 
down  into  the  darkness.  I  felt  as  if  I  were  pene- 
trating into  the  last  recesses  of  a  ruined  temple. 
And  there,  in  the  ultimate  chamber  crouched  all 
that  was  left  of  the  inmate,  terrified,  helpless,  and 
ignorant.  As  I  looked  upon  him  I  understood 
why  man  is  never  permitted  really  to  know  him- 
self unless,  in  an  access  of  mad  folly  and  over- 
weening pride,  he  succeeds  in  crossing  the  boundary 
which  to  pass  is  sheer  wickedness.  And  I  tried 
to  turn  away,  but  I  could  not  —  I  could  not.  I 
made  a  supreme  effort.  It  was  in  vain. 

"  I  saw  him  go  home.  At  last  he  was  sick  of 
his  sin.  There  rose  within  him  that  strange  long- 
ing for  goodness,  for  purity  and  rest,  that  terrible, 
aching  desire  to  be  what  those  who  once  loved  him 
for  long  had  thought  him  to  be,  which  perhaps 
never  dies  in  the  soul  of  a  human  being.  Is  it  the 
instinct  of  the  Creator  burning  like  an  undying 
spark  in  the  created?  And,  as  he  drew  near  to 
his  house,  there  came  to  him  the  resolve  to  speak, 
to  acknowledge,  to  say,  *  This  is  what  I  am. 
Know  me  as  I  am !  Care  for  me  still,  in  spite  of 
what  I  am!  '  He  went  in,  and  sought  her  —  the 
woman.  She  was  alone.  Sleep  had  not  come  t;o 

249 


THE  DWELLER 

her.  Perhaps  some  instinct  had  told  her  she 
must  wake  and  be  ready  for  something.  Then  he 
gathered  together  the  little  that  was  left  to  him 
of  courage,  and  he  strove  to  tell  her,  to  make  her 
understand  some  of  the  truth,  to  obtain  from  her 
the  greatest  of  human  gifts  —  the  love  of  one  from 
whom  a  man  has  no  secrets  that  he  can  tell. 

"  She  listened  for  a  moment,  then  she  thrust 
out  her  hands  as  if  to  push  the  truth  of  him  out 
of  her  life.  And  last  night  she  left  him  —  going 
in  fear  of  him." 

The  professor  shook  his  narrow  shoulders,  and 
sprang  abruptly  to  his  feet.  The  ticking  of  the 
clock  now  sounded  almost  like  a  hammer  beating 
in  his  ears. 

"  It 's  time  we  had  some  light,"  he  said  in  rather 
a  loud  voice. 

The  darkness  that  was  Chichester  moved.  A 
gleam  of  light  shone  in  the  little  room,  revealing 
the  thin  Madonna,  "  The  Light  of  the  World,"  the 
piano,  the  neatly  bound  books  of  the  curate  of  St. 
Joseph's;  revealing  Chichester,  who  now  stood 
facing  the  professor,  white,  drawn,  lined,  but 
with  eyes  full  of  almost  hideous  resolution  and 
power. 

"  I  advise,"  said  the  professor  — "  I  advise  you 
from  this  time  forward  — " 

250 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

He  stared  into  the  eyes  of  the  man  opposite 
to  him,  and  his  voice  died  away  in  his  throat. 

When,  immediately  afterward,  he  found  himself 
walking  hurriedly  toward  Kensington  High  Street 
the  sweat  was  pouring  down  his  face. 


251 


XII 


ONE  night  of  that  autumn,  driven  by  an  over- 
mastering impulse,  Evelyn  Mailing  set  out 
toward  Kensington.  He  felt  that  he  must  know 
something  more  of  the  matter  between  Marcus 
Harding  and  Henry  Chichester.  Stepton  still 
kept  silence.  Mailing  had  not  approached  him. 
But  why  should  he  not  call  upon  Chichester,  an 
acquaintance,  almost  a  friend?  It  was  true  that 
he  had  resolved,  having  put  the  affair  into  Stepton's 
hands,  to  wait.  It  had  come  to  this,  then,  to-night 
that  he  could  be  patient  no  longer?  As  he  stood 
at  the  corner  of  Hornton  Street,  he  asked  himself 
that  question.  He  drew  out  his  watch.  It  was 
already  past  eleven,  an  unholy  hour  for  an  unan- 
nounced visit.  But  slowly  he  turned  into  Hornton 
Street,  slowly  went  down  that  quiet  thoroughfare 
till  he  was  opposite  to  the  windows  of  the  curate's 
sitting-room.  A  light  shone  in  one  of  them.  The 
rest  of  the  house  was  dark.  Even  the  fanlight 
above  the  small  front  door  displayed  no  yellow 
gleam.  No  doubt  the  household  had  retired  to 

252 


THE  DWELLER 

rest  and  Henry  Chichester  was  sitting  up  alone. 
A  rap  would  probably  bring  him  down  to  open  to 
his  nocturnal  visitor.  But  now  Mailing  bethought 
himself  seriously  of  the  lateness  of  the  hour,  and 
paced  slowly  up  and  down,  considering  whether  to 
seek  speech  of  the  curate  or  to  abandon  that  idea 
and  return  to  Cadogan  Square.  As  in  his  mental 
debate  he  paused  once  more  opposite  to  the  soli- 
tary gleam  in  the  first-floor  window,  an  incident 
occurred  which  startled  him,  and  gave  a  new  bent 
to  his  thoughts.  It  was  this:  The  light  in  the 
window  was  obscured  for  a  moment  as  if  by  some 
solid  body  passing  before  it.  Then  the  window 
was  violently  thrown  up,  the  large  figure  of  a  man, 
only  vaguely  perceived  by  Mailing,  appeared  at  it, 
and  a  choking  sound  dropped  out  into  the  night. 
The  man  seemed  to  be  leaning  out  as  if  in  an  ef- 
fort to  fill  his  lungs  with  air,  or  to  obtain  the  re- 
lief of  the  cool  night  wind  for  his  distracted 
nerves.  His  attitude  struck  Mailing  as  peculiar 
and  desperate.  Suddenly  he  moved.  The  light 
showed,  and  Mailing  saw  for  an  instant  a  second 
figure,  small,  slight,  commanding.  The  big  man 
seemed  to  be  sucked  back  toward  the  center  of  the 
room.  Down  came  the  window;  the  tranquil 
gleam  of  the  light  shone  as  before;  then  abruptly 
all  was  dark. 

253 


THE  DWELLER 

Mailing  realized  at  once  what  was  happening  in 
the  curate's  lodgings.  As  he  paused,  gazing  at  the 
dark  house,  he  knew  that  the  miserable  Marcus 
Harding  was  within,  constrained  to  endure  the 
observation  which,  to  use  his  own  hideous  but 
poignant  phrase,  was  "  eating  him  away."  It  was 
he  who  had  appeared  at  the  window,  like  a  tor- 
tured being  endeavoring  to  escape  into  the  free- 
dom of  the  night.  It  was  Henry  Chichester  who 
had  followed  him,  who  had  drawn  him  back,  who 
had  plunged  him  into  darkness. 

The  street  was  deserted.  No  policeman  passed, 
regarding  him  with  suspicion,  and  Mailing  went 
on  sentinel  duty.  The  dark  house  fascinated  him. 
More  than  once  a  desire  came  to  him  to  make  an 
effort  for  the  release  of  Marcus  Harding,  to  cross 
the  street  and  to  hammer  brutally  at  the  green 
door.  He  recalled  Henry  Chichester's  strange 
sermon,  and  he  felt  as  if  he  assisted  at  the  torture 
of  the  double,  which  he  himself  had  imaginatively 
suggested  to  the  two  clergymen  in  Lady  Sophia's 
drawing-room.  Ought  he  not  to  interrupt  such 
a  torture? 

Midnight  struck,  and  he  had  not  knocked. 
One  o'clock  struck;  he  had  paced  the  street,  but 
had  never  gone  out  of  sight  of  the  curate's  door. 
It  was  nearly  two,  and  Mailing  was  not  far  from 

254 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

the  High  Street  end  of  the  thoroughfare  when  he 
heard  a  door  bang.  He  turned  sharply.  A 
heavy  uncertain  footstep  rang  on  the  pavement. 
Out  of  the  darkness  emerged  a  tall  figure  with 
bowed  head.  As  it  moved  slowly  forward  once 
or  twice  it  swayed,  and  a  wavering  arm  shot  out  as 
if  seeking  for  some  support.  Mailing  stood 
where  he  was  till  he  saw  the  broad  ghastliness  of 
Marcus  Harding's  white  face  show  under  the  ray 
of  a  lamp.  He  discerned  no  eyes.  The  eyes  of 
the  unhappy  man  seemed  sunken  out  of  recogni- 
tion in  the  dreadful  whiteness  of  his  countenance. 
The  gait  was  that  of  one  who  believes  himself 
dogged,  and  who  tries  to  slink  furtively,  but  who 
has  partly  lost  control  of  his  bodily  powers,  and 
who  starts  in  terror  at  his  own  too  heavy  and 
sounding  footfalls. 

This  figure  went  by  Mailing,  and  was  lost  in 
the  lighted  emptiness  of  the  High  Street.  Mai- 
ling did  not  follow  it.  Now  he  had  a  great  desire, 
born  out  of  his  inmost  humanity,  to  speak  with 
Henry  Chichestcr.  He  made  up  his  mind  to  re- 
turn to  the  curate's  door:  if  he  saw  a  light  to 
knock  and  ask  for  admittance;  if  the  window  was 
dark  to  go  on  his  w^y.  He  retraced  his  steps, 
looked  up,  and  saw  a  light.  Then  it  was  to  be. 
That  man  and  he  were  to  speak  together.  But  as 

255 


THE  DWELLER 

he  looked,  the  light  was  extinguished.  Never- 
theless he  struck  upon  the  door. 

No  one  answered.  He  struck  again,  then 
stepped  back  into  the  roadway,  and  looked  up  at 
Chichester's  window.  The  curate  must  surely 
have  heard.  Yes,  for  even  as  Mailing  gazed  the 
window  moved.  No  light  appeared.  But  after 
a  pause  a  voice  above  said: 

"  Is  that  you,  Mr.  Harding?  " 

The  dim  figure  of  a  man  was  apparent,  stand- 
ing a  little  back  and  half  concealed  by  a  dark- 
ness of  drooping  curtains. 

"  It  is  I  —  Evelyn  Mailing,"  said  Mailing. 

The  form  at  the  window  started. 

"Mr.  Mailing!"  the  words  came  uncertainly. 
'What  is  it?  Has  —  has  anything  happened 
to  —  why  do  you  want  me  at  such  an  hour?" 

"  I  chanced  to  be  in  your  street  and  saw  your 
light.  I  thought  I  would  give  you  a  hail." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  you  want  to  come  in?  " 

After  a  short  pause  Mailing  answered,  "  Yes." 

"  I  cannot  let  you  in !  "  the  voice  above  cried 
out  lamentably. 

Then  the  window  was  shut  very  softly. 

Three  days  later  Mailing  saw  in  the  papers  the 
news  of  the  complete  breakdown  of  Marcus  Har- 

256 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

ding.  "  Nervous  prostration,"  was  the  name 
given  by  the  doctors  to  his  malady,  and  it  was  an- 
nounced that  he  had  been  ordered  to  take  a  sea 
voyage,  and  was  preparing  to  start  for  Australia 
with  a  nurse. 

Soon  afterward  Mailing  was  walking  in  the 
afternoon  down  Pall  Mall,  wondering  deeply 
what  would  happen,  whether  the  rector  would 
ever  start  on  that  voyage,  when  he  came 
upon  Professor  Stepton  sidling  out  of  the  Athe- 
naeum. 

"  Heard  about  Harding?  "  jerked  out  the  pro- 
fessor. 

"  Yes.     Has  he  sailed  for  Australia  ?  " 

"  Dead.  Died  at  half-past  three  o'clock  this 
morning." 

Mailing  turned  cold. 

"  Poor  fellow !  "  he  said.     "  Poor  fellow !  " 

The  professor  was  drawing  his  plaid  shawl 
round  his  shoulders.  When  it  was  properly  ad- 
justed, he  began  to  walk  on.  Mailing  kept  almost 
mechanically  beside  him. 

"  Did  you  expect  this?  "  Mailing  asked. 

"  Well,  I  knew  he  was  failing." 

"And  Chichester?  Have  you  seen  Chichester 
since  his  death?  " 

"  No.     Would  you  like  to  see  him  for  me?  " 

17  257 


THE  DWELLER 

Mailing  was  deep  in  thought  and  did  not  an- 
swer. 

"Do  you  think?"  said  the  professor,  "that 
Henry  Chichester  will  be  greatly  affected  by  this 
death?" 

u  Affected  ?     Do  you  mean  by  grief  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  I  should  suppose  that  to  be  highly  improb- 
able." 

The  professor  shot  a  very  sharp  glance  at  Mai- 
ling. 

"  I  'm  not  sure  that  I  agree  with  you,"  he  ob- 
served dryly. 

"Have  you  seen  him  lately?"  asked  Mailing. 

"  Not  quite  recently.  But  if  I  had  seen  him, 
say,  yesterday,  I  don't  think  that  would  greatly  af- 
fect my  present  dubiety.  I  should,  however,  like 
to  set  that  dubiety  at  rest.  Are  you  busy  to-day  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  I  am.  Will  you  make  a  little  investigation 
for  me?  Will  you  go  and  pay  a  visit  of  condo- 
lence to  Chichester  on  the  death  of  his  rector,  and 
then  come  round  to  the  White  House  and  re- 
port?" 

"  I  will  if  you  wish  it." 

"  I  shall  be  in  after  seven," 

"  Very  well." 

258 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

"  I  dare  say  you  will  be  surprised,"  observed 
Stepton.  "  I  see  my  bus." 

Mailing  left  him  imperatively  waving  his  arm, 
and,  turning,  walked  toward  Kensington. 

What  were  his  expectations?  He  did  not 
know.  Stepton  had  upset  his  mind.  As  he  went 
on  slowly  he  strove  to  regain  his  mental  equilib- 
rium. But  he  could  not  decide  exactly  what  Step- 
ton  had  meant.  He  felt  inferior  to  the  professor 
as  he  turned  into  Hornton  Street. 

He  did  not  hesitate,  but  went  at  once  to  the 
curate's  door  and  rapped.  No  one  answered. 
He  rapped  again,  and  touched  the  bell,  half  hop- 
ing, even  while  he  did  so,  that  there  was  no  one 
within  to  hear. 

But  an  inquiring  head  appeared  in  the  area, 
observed,  and  was  sharply  withdrawn.  Steps 
sounded  in  the  passage,  and  the  maid  Ellen  pre- 
sented herself,  looking  somewhat  disordered. 

"  Yes,  sir?  "  she  said. 

"  Is  Mr.  Chichester  at  home?" 

"  He  is  in,  sir,  poor  gentleman,"  replied  the 
maid.  "  Did  you  want  to  see  him?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  I  'm  sure  I  don't  know  whether  he  will  see  you, 
sir." 

"Is  he  ill?" 

259 


THE  DWELLER 

"  Not  to  say  ill,  sir.     But  have  n't  you  heard?  " 

"What?" 

"  His  poor  rector  's  gone,  sir,  what  used  to  come 
here  to  visit  him  so  regular.  I  never  see  a  gentle- 
man in  such  a  way.  Why,  he  's  so  changed  I 
don't  hardly  know  him." 

"  Have  you  been  here  long?  "  said  Mailing, 
abruptly. 

"  Only  six  months,  sir." 

The  maid  began  to  look  rather  astonished. 

"  And  so  Mr.  Chichester  is  quite  altered  by  his 
grief?" 

"  You  never  did,  sir!  He  was  so  firm,  was  n't 
he,  above  every  one  !  Even  his  rector  used  to  look 
to  him  and  be  guided  by  him.  And  now  he  's 
as  gentle  and  weak  almost  as  a  new-born  child, 
as  they  say." 

Mailing  thought  of  Stepton.  Had  he  looked 
forward  to  some  such  change  ? 

"  Perhaps  I  could  console  Mr.  Chichester  in 
his  grief,"  he  said.  "  Will  you  take  him  this  card 
and  ask  if  I  can  see  him?  I  knew  Mr.  Harding, 
too.  I  might  be  of  use,  possibly." 

"  I  '11  ask  him,  sir.  He  's  laying  down  on  the 
bed,  I  do  believe." 

Ellen  hurried  up-stairs  with  the  card.  It 
260 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

seemed  to  Mailing  that  she  was  away  for  a  long 
time.  At  last  she  returned. 

"  If  you  please,  sir,  Mr.  Chichester  wants  to 
know  if  it 's  anything  important..  He  's  feeling 
very  bad,  poor  gentleman.  But  of  course  if  it 's 
anything  important,  he  would  n't  for  all  the  world 
say  no." 

"  It  is  important." 

"  Then  I  was  to  ask  you  to  walk  in,  sir,  please." 

Chichcster's  sitting-room  was  empty  when  Mai- 
ling came  into  it,  and  the  folding-doors  between 
it  and  the  bedroom  were  shut.  Ellen  went  away, 
and  Mailing  heard  a  faint  murmur  of  voices,  and 
then  Ellen's  footstep  retreating  down  the  stairs. 
Silence  followed.  He  waited,  at  first  standing. 
Then  he  sat  down  near  the  piano.  Not  a  sound 
reached  him  from  the  bedroom.  On  the  curate's 
table  lay  a  book.  Mailing  took  it  up.  The  title 
was  "  God's  Will  be  Done."  The  author  was 
a  well-known  high-church  divine,  Father  Rowton. 
To  him,  then,  Henry  Chichester  betook  himself  for 
comfort.  The  piano  stood  open.  On  it  was 
music.  Mailing  looked  and  saw,  "  Oh,  for  the 
wings,  for  the  wings  of  a  dove  1  "  by  Mendelssohn. 
The  little  room  seemed  full  of  pious  orthodoxy. 
Surely  its  atmosphere  was  utterly  changed  since 

261 


THE  DWELLER 

Mailing  last  was  in  it.  The  melody  of  "  Oh, 
for  the  wings !  "  went  through  his  brain.  That 
the  Henry  Chichester  he  had  recently  known,  that 
cruel  searcher  after  and  expounder  of  truth,  that 
he  should  be  helped  by  those  words,  by  that 
melody,  in  an  hour  of  sorrow  1 

There  was  a  movement  in  the  bedroom.  The 
folding-doors  opened  inward,  and  the  curate  ap- 
peared. He  was  very  pale,  and  looked  really  ill. 
His  face  had  fallen  in.  His  fair  hair  was  slightly 
disordered,  and  his  blue  eyes  were  surrounded  by 
red  rims.  His  expression  suggested  that  he  had 
recently  undergone  an  extremely  violent  shock, 
which  had  shaken  badly  both  body  and  mind.  He 
looked  dazed.  Coming  forward  feebly,  he  held 
out  his  hand. 

"  I  believe  it  is  something  important,"  he  said 
in  a  gentle,  rather  wavering^  voice ;  "  otherwise  — 
I  am  hardly  fit,  I  fear,  to  be  with  my  kind.  I  " — 
He  sat  down  — u  I  have  had  a  terrible  shock, 
Mr.  Mailing.  You  have  heard?" 

"  You  mean  Mr.  Harding's  death?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  I  have  just  heard  of  it." 

"  It  occurred  at  half-past  three  o'clock  last 
night,  or,  rather,  this  morning.  He  had  been  de- 
clining for  a  long  while.  At  the  last  he  just  faded 

262 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

out,  as  it  were.  The  strange  thing  is  that  I  knew 
the  exact  moment  when  he  entered  into  rest." 

"  You  were  n't  with  him  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no.  I  was  here,  asleep.  But  at  three 
o'clock  I  awoke.  I  felt  violently  agitated.  I  can 
scarcely  describe  the  sensation.  It  was  as  if  I  was 
torn,  as  if  mind  and  body,  or  spirit  and  body, 
were  torn,  lacerated.  I  suffered  the  greatest  con- 
ceivable agony.  I  tried  to  cry  out,  but  I  could  not. 
Nor  could  I  move.  Then  everything  suddenly 
seemed  to  fail,  all  in  a  moment,  and  I  was  at  peace. 
But  it  was  like  the  peace  of  death,  I  think.  And 
I  was  aware  —  I  don't  know  how  —  that  Mr. 
Harding  was  dead.  I  moved.  I  looked  at  my 
watch.  It  was  a  minute  after  half-past  three. 
I  noted  down  the  time.  And  this  morning  —  I 
heard." 

"And  then?" 

"  Only  then  I  understood  my  loss  —  the  loss 
to  us  all.  Ah,  Mr.  Mailing,  you  knew  him,  but 
not  as  I  did!  Few  or  none  knew  him  as  I  did. 
He  was  the  greatest  and  best  of  men,  full  of  power, 
but  full  of  kindness  and  goodness,  too.  He 
guided  me  in  everything.  I  can  never  tell  you  how 
I  looked  up  to  him,  how  I  trusted  him.  His 
judgment  was  extraordinary,  his  reading  of  char- 
acter was  unerring.  I  do  believe  he  knew  me  bet- 

263 


THE  DWELLER 

ter  than  I  knew  myself.     What  shall  I  do  with- 
out him?" 

The  curate's  grief  was  almost  as  genuine  and 
unself-conscious  as  a  child's,  and  Mailing  felt  as 
if  at  that  moment,  like  a  child,  he  felt  himself 
adrift  in  a  difficult  world.  His  gentle,  kindly, 
but  not  strong  face  was  distorted,  but  not  hardened, 
by  his  distress,  which  seemed  begging  for  sympathy. 
And  Mailing  remembered  the  Henry  Chichester 
he  had  known  some  years  ago,  before  the  days 
of  St.  Joseph's,  the  saintly  but  rather  weak  man, 
beloved  by  every  one,  but  ruling  no  one.  That 
man  was  surely  before  him,  and  that  man  knew 
not  how  to  play  a  hypocrite's  part.  Yet  Mailing 
felt  he  must  test  him. 

"His  death  is  very  sad,"  he  replied;  "but 
surely  his  powers  had  been  on  the  decline  for  a 
long  while." 

"  His  powers,  but  not  his  capacity  for  good- 
ness. His  patience  was  angelic.  Even  when  the 
crudest  blow  of  all  fell  upon  him,  even  when  his 
wife  —  whom,  God  forgive  me !  I  don't  think  some 
of  us  can  ever  forgive  —  even  when  she  deserted 
him  in  his  hour  of  need,  he  never  complained. 
He  knew  it  was  God's  hand  upon  him,  and  he  sub- 
mitted. He  has  taught  me  what  true  patience  is. 
What  I  owe  to  him !  What  I  owe  to  him !  " 

264 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

As  if  distressed  beyond  measure,  the  curate  got 
up,  almost  wringing  his  thin  hands. 

"  It  was  he  who  sacrificed  his  time  for  me  1  " 
he  continued,  moving  restlessly  about  the  room. 
"  But  I  seem  to  remember  I  told  you.  Did  n't  I 
tell  you —  or  was  it  some  one  else  ?  —  how  he 
gave  up  the  hours  which  should  have  been  hours 
of  repose  in  order  that  my  will  might  be  strength- 
ened, that  I  might  be  developed  into  a  man  more 
worthy  to  be  his  coadjutor  ?  When  I  think,  when 
I  remember  — " 

His  light,  tenor  voice  failed.  Tears  stood  in 
his  gentle,  blue  eyes. 

"  If  I  am  worth  anything  at  all,"  he  sud- 
denly cried  out,  "  if  I  have  gained  any  force  of 
character,  any  power  for  good  at  all,  I  owe  it  all 
to  my  rector's  self-sacrificing  endeavors  on  my  be- 
half —  of  course,  through  God's  blessing." 

"Then,"  said  Mailing,  "you  think  that  Mr. 
Harding  changed  you  by  his  influence?" 

"  He  helped  me  to  develop,  he  brought  me  on. 
Jealousy  was  unknown  to  him.  I  was  a  very  poor 
preacher.  He  taught  me  how  to  hold  people's 
attention.  When  I  knew  he  was  near  me  I  some- 
times seemed  almost  inspired.  I  was  inspired  by 
him.  I  preached  almost  as  if  out  of  his  mouth. 
And  now !  " 

!8  265 


THE  DWELLER 

He  made  a  despairing  gesture. 

"  Now  it  will  all  be  different!  "  he  exclaimed. 

And  almost  involuntarily  Mailing  found  him- 
self echoing: 

"  Yes,  now  it  will  all  be  different." 

He  had  seen,  he  had  heard,  enough  to  make  his 
report  to  the  professor,  and  he  resolved  to  go. 
He  held  out  his  hand. 

"  Oh,  but,"  said  Chichester,  pressing  one  hand 
to  his  forehead,  "  I  'm  so  selfish,  so  forgetful  in 
my  great  grief!  Surely  you  said  you  had  come 
on  some  matter  of  importance." 

"  It  will  wait,"  said  Mailing.  "  Another  day. 
Go  and  rest  now.  You  need  rest.  Any  one  can 
see  that." 

"  Thank  you,  thank  you,"  said  Chichester,  with 
quivering  lips.  "  You  are  very  thoughtful,  very 
good." 

Mailing  took  his  hand  in  farewell.  As  he  did 
so  there  was  a  sharp  knock  at  the  front  door. 
Chichester  started  violently. 

"  Oh,  I  do  hope  it  is  no  one  for  me !  "  he  cried 
out.  "  I  cannot  — " 

He  opened  the  door  of  the  sitting-room  a  little 
way  and  listened.  Voices  were  audible  below, 
Ellen's  voice  and  another  woman's. 

266 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

'  You,  ma'am !  Oh,  of  course  he  will  see 
you!" 

"  Of  course." 

"  I  did  n't  know  who  it  was,  ma'am." 

"Is  it  this  way?" 

1  Yes,  ma'am.  I  '11  show  you.  We  do  feel 
it,  ma'am.  The  poor  gentleman  used  to  come 
here  so  often  of  nights." 

"  Did  he  ?     I  did  n't  know  that." 

Mailing  recognized  the  second  voice  as  Lady 
Sophia's.  A  moment,  and  she  was  ushered  into 
the  room.  She  was  dressed  in  black,  but  not  in 
widow's  weeds,  and  wore  a  veil  which  she  pushed 
hastily  up  as  she  came  in  almost  with  a  rush. 
When  she  saw  Mailing,  for  a  moment  she  looked 
disconcerted. 

"  Oh,  I  thought  — "  she  began.  She  stood 
still.  Chichester  said  nothing,  and  did  not  move. 
Mailing  went  toward  her. 

"  I  was  very  much  grieved,"  he  said,  u  at  the 
news  I  heard  to-day." 

She  gave  him  her  hand.  He  knew  his  words 
were  conventional.  How  could  they  be  anything 
else  ?  But  Lady  Sophia's  manner  in  giving  him  her 
hand  was  not  conventional.  She  stretched  it  out 
without  even  looking  at  him.  She  said  nothing. 

267 


THE  DWELLER 

Her  eyes  were  fixed  upon  Chichester,  who  stood 
on  the  other  side  of  the  little  room  in  a  rigid  at- 
titude, with  his  eyes  cast  down,  as  if  he  could  not 
bear  to  see  the  woman  who  had  just  entered. 

"  I  offer  you  my  sympathy,"  Mailing  added. 

"  Sympathy !  "  said  Lady  Sophia,  with  a  sharp 
note  in  her  voice  suggestive  of  intense,  almost 
febrile  excitement.  "  Then  did  n't  you  know  ?  " 

She  stared  at  him,  turning  her  head  swiftly. 

"Know?" 

"That  I  had  left  him?  Yes,  I  left  him,  and 
now  he  is  dead.  Do  you  expect  me  to  be  sorry? 
Well,  I  am  not  sorry.  Ah,  I  see  you  don't  under- 
stand! " 

She  made  a  movement  toward  Chichester.  It 
was  obvious  that  she  was  so  intensely  excited  that 
she  had  lost  the  power  of  self-control. 

"  Nobody  undertands  me  but  you !  "  she  cried 
out  to  Chichester.  "  You  knew  what  he  was,  you 
knew  what  I  endured,  you  know  what  I  must  feel 
now.  Oh,  it 's  no  use  pretending.  I  'm  sick  of 
pretence.  You  have  taught  me  to  care  for  abso- 
lute truth  and  only  that.  My  relations,  my  friends 
—  ah !  to-day  I  have  been  almost  suffocated  with 
hypocrisy!  And  now,  when  I  come  here — "  she 
flung  out  her  hand  toward  Mailing  — "  to  get  away 
from  it  all — '  grieved,'  '  my  sympathy!  '  I  can't 

268 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

bear  any  more  of  that.  Tell  him!  You  tell 
him !  You  're  so  strong,  so  terribly  sincere  1 
One  can  rest  upon  your  strength  when  all  else 
fails  one !  " 

She  tottered.  For  an  instant  it  seemed  to  Mai- 
ling that  she  was  going  to  fall  against  Chichester's 
shoulder ;  but  she  caught  at  a  chair,  and  saved  her- 
self. 

"  Mr.  Chichester!  "  she  said,  "  tell  him!  Tell 
him  for  me!  " 

"  I  have  nothing  to  tell  him,"  said  Chichester, 
with  a  sort  of  mild,  almost  weak  coldness,  and 
wearily. 

"  Nothing!  "  She  went  nearer  to  him.  "  But 
—  you  don't  welcome  me !  " 

Chichester  looked  up,  but  immediately  cast 
down  his  eyes  again. 

"  I  cannot,"  he  said.  "  At  this  moment  I 
simply  cannot." 

An  expression  of  terrified  surprise  transformed 
Lady  Sophia's  face.  She  went  close  up  to  Chi- 
chester, staring  at  him. 

"Why  not?"  she  asked. 

"  You  must  know  that." 

She  stood  still,  always  staring  at  him,  as  if 
searching  for  something  which  she  did  not  find. 

"  Why  not?  "  she  repeated. 
269 


THE  DWELLER 

"  You  left  —  him  when  he  needed  you  most. 
You  left  him  to  die  alone." 

Lady  Sophia  suddenly  turned  round  to  Mailing 
and  scrutinized  his  face,  as  if  demanding  from 
him  sympathy  in  her  horrified  amazement.  He 
regarded  her  calmly,  and  she  turned  again  to  the 
curate. 

"  What  do  you  mean?  "  she  said,  and  her  voice 
had  changed. 

"  That  his  friends  can  never  be  yours,"  said 
Chichester,  as  if  making  a  great  effort,  driven  to  it 
by  some  intense  feeling. 

1  You  call  yourself  his  friend !  "  said  Lady 
Sophia.  Her  voice  vibrated  with  scorn. 

"  At  any  rate,  he  was  mine,  my  best  friend. 
And  now  he  has  gone  forever!  " 

Lady  Sophia  drew  in  her  breath.  »-. 

"You  hyprocrite!"  she  said.  "You  hypo- 
crite!" 

She  spoke  like  one  under  the  influence  of  an  emo- 
tion so  intense  that  it  could  not  be  gainsaid. 

"  To  pretend  you  admired  him,  loved  him  — 
you!" 

"  I  did  admire  and  love  him." 

She  seemed  to  be  struck  dumb  by  his  quiet 
manner,  by  the  conviction  in  his  voice.  In  a  mo- 
ment she  turned  round  again  toward  Mailing. 

270 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

Her  face  had  quite  changed.  It  was  working 
nervously.  The  mouth  quivered.  She  stood  for 
a  moment,  then  suddenly  she  made  for  the  door. 
As  she  passed  Mailing,  she  whispered:  "The 
strength  —  where  is  it?  Oh,  I  'm  afraid  of  him ! 
I  'm  afraid  of  him !  " 

She  disappeared.  Almost  immediately  Mailing 
heard  the  street  door  shut. 

"I  —  I  cannot  pretend  to  her,"  Chichester  said, 
"  even  in  my  own  house." 

He  seemed  greatly  moved,  almost  on  the  verge 
of  tears. 

11 1  '11  leave  you  alone,"  said  Mailing.  "  You 
need  to  be  alone." 

"  Thank  you !     Thank  you !  "  said  Chichester. 

And  without  another  word  he  went  into  the  bed- 
room, shutting  the  folding-doors  behind  him. 

At  half-past  seven  that  same  evening  Mailing 
was  with  Professor  Stepton,  and  made  what  the 
professor  called  his  "  report." 

"  Ah  I  "  said  the  professor  when  he  had  finished. 

"  Did  you  expect  Chichester  to  behave  like 
that,  to  be  like  that  ?  "  asked  Mailing. 

"  I  hoped  he  would." 

"Hoped!     Why?" 

"  Because  it  enables  me  to  accept  as  facts  cer- 
271 


THE  DWELLER 

tain  things  about  which  I  must  otherwise  have 
remained  in  doubt.  Of  course  I  must  see  Chi- 
chester  for  myself.  But  he  '11  be  just  the  same, 
just  the  same." 

The  professor's  eyes  shone,  and  he  poked  his 
chin  forward. 

"  The  reverend  gentlemen  of  St.  Joseph's  have 
provided  me  with  a  basis,"  he  exclaimed  emphatic- 
ally. 

"  A  basis!     For  what?  "  asked  Mailing. 

"  For  future  experiments  and  investigations  of 
a  highly  interesting  nature.  Ruskin  was  very 
often  wrong,  but  he  was  right  when  he  said,  in  a 
lucid  moment,  that  every  creature  is  precious. 
Well,  good-night,  Mailing.  I  must  get  to  work. 
I  '11  explain  everything  to  you  later." 

Almost  joyously  he  shut  the  door  on  his  friend. 
Almost  joyously  he  sat  down  once  more  before 
his  writing-table  and  seized  his  pen  and  his  note- 
book. 

But  he  did  not  begin  to  write.  His  face  sud- 
denly changed.  He  put  his  pen  down,  pushed  his 
note-book  away,  sat  back  in  his  chair,  and  let  his 
pointed  chin  drop  toward  his  breast.  And  pres- 
ently he  began  to  mutter  to  himself. 

"  A  little  science !  "  he  muttered.  "  A  little 
272 


ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

science  sends  man  far  away  from  God.  A  great 
deal  of  science  brings  man  back  to  God.  Which 
is  it  now  —  you  professor,  you  ?  Which  is  it 
now?" 


THE   END 


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